Weaving my way through motherhood whilst trying not to mess up adulthood.

Short Story:Home For Christmas

 A week had passed, a week that felt like a life sentence, a week filled with uncertainty, tense phone calls and promises likely to be broken. On the day that John called, Theresa felt sad and helpless, helpless that she couldn’t help, helpless that she couldn’t make it all better.

John’s wife had taken ill with a virus which left her weak and lethargic and John not knowing whether she would be well enough to travel.
Sitting on the edge of her bed, Theresa slips her feet into her slippers and takes a glance at the clock. The digital device read: 06:30, six thirty on Christmas day.

It had been many years since tiny limbs clambered onto the bed with fingers sticky from eating chocolate reaching into stockings to pull out the presents from Santa. Now, the house seems empty, so quiet as she pads down the stairs to a kitchen waiting to be filled with the rich smells of turkey whilst the jolly mix of Christmas carols and modern pop play on the radio.

She hadn’t heard from John in a few days and with everyone adjusting to the news that he wouldn’t be joining them after all, she didn’t want to upset her son even more by continually asking if there was a chance they could all fly over when his wife was so unwell. Turning on the oven, Theresa set it to preheat before grabbing the sack of potatoes from the cupboard and beginning the tedious task of potato peeling.

By the time, the old clock in the living room chimed for twelve in the afternoon; Martha and Rebecca, alongside their husbands and children had all arrived at Theresa’s. The children excited gave quick hugs to their grandmother before heading straight towards the tree to see what goodies they had received. Martha heads straight for the processco whilst Rebecca keeps busy with setting the table ready for the Christmas lunch.

“Any news from John?” Martha asks, opening a chocolate coin from her stocking.

Theresa shakes her head, draws in a deep breath stopping the tears she’d been fighting back all morning from dropping onto her cheeks. She was determined to keep strong for her children and grandchildren’s sake. Of course, she missed John and wanted nothing more than for him to be there opening presents, winding up his sisters and bonding with his brother in laws, nieces and nephews. But she had to be thankful for the family she had around her.

The meal, a choice of two meats with all the trimmings followed by Christmas pudding all got eaten before the Queen’s speech. Now everyone lay slumped on the sofa, full with good food and drink whilst a selection box gets passed round the living room. The doorbell rings just as the Queen finales her well wishes for the forth coming year, not one for unexpected visitors, Theresa lets Martha get the door.

“Mum?” She calls from the hall way, “There is someone at the door for you.”
Feeling confused, Theresa puts her glass of sherry on the coffee table and stands, joining a crying Martha at the front door which had been left ajar.

“Martha, why are you crying?” Theresa asks

The front door opens and standing on the doorstep is John, his wife and daughter smiling broadly and holding suitcases and giftbags. Theresa’s cry of excitement gets everyone from the living room into the hall way to see what all the fuss and commotion is about.

Holding his arms out wide towards his mother, Theresa runs into them, squeezing her son tightly into her chest.

“John, I didn’t think you would make it, “Theresa whispers, wiping tears from her face.
John kisses his mother’s cheeks, “Merry Christmas Mum.”

1 comment

  1. A well-written story about the simple pleasures of life...beautiful.


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