Mama is with Santa on the couch. I’m twelve. There’s a labyrinth of arms and low words, murmured things about tyranny. Domesticity. She smiles. She’s never smiled for me or Dad.
I tell Dad. I can’t think of anything else. There’s something sharp in his eyes. He promises to keep us a family.
They find Santa in a dumpster. Dad goes to jail. Mama laments. Nick was a man of ideas, she says. Someone lonely.
She withdraws into her room, avoids me, flitting about.
I carry the knowledge with me. A family broken apart like glass.
I never snitch again.
I tell Dad. I can’t think of anything else. There’s something sharp in his eyes. He promises to keep us a family.
They find Santa in a dumpster. Dad goes to jail. Mama laments. Nick was a man of ideas, she says. Someone lonely.
She withdraws into her room, avoids me, flitting about.
I carry the knowledge with me. A family broken apart like glass.
I never snitch again.
