wallpaper seams

She checks her eyes in her rearview as she drives down the interstate. Glassy. Her gaze shifts to the back seat. Her child is too engrossed with a novel. The level of lighting just low enough to veil the emotions trying to seep out beyond the boundary of her eyeliner. She knows if she moves her hands toward her face too many times that the child will catch on. An act to stem the flow, and therefore, a time for the child to begin an act of worry.

Their arrival is uneventful, yet warm. Gifts and pastries make their way into the residence for their new tradition. Ex-wife. New wife. First child. Second child. All in the name of milk and cookies and stuffed stockings. The tree is taller than in her former life. The logs flicker on with a remote. Her own seasons are measured by cords of oak, buckets of ash.

She contemplates the decor of the rooms in which she's allowed, color palettes too chic for her modest home. A monogram from the mantle of the name she keeps makes her feel an imposter. When will she get the chance to trade it for another?

Bread is broken between the current and the former in the form of pizza crust. White wine buoys the conversation. The man that bridges their timelines is working late. They fill the gap with talk of work. Children. Grief.

He finally drags himself indoors from the driveway, grateful to be done with his shift. Kisses are swapped, pet names casually exchanged in her presence. Acts that make her feel safe in his choice, yet insecure from her side of the couch.

The children exit the scene. One too old for Santa, saluting everyone good night from the second floor landing. The other not old enough to understand, needing a diaper change and a repeated read of a handful of favorite books. A time to wake is agreed upon by all before retreating to their separate spaces for sleep. A future year would have to host the energy of the second child rousing too soon, skipping stairs and checking the cookie plate before alarms stir the older crowd.

She climbs the stairs to the room at the end of the hall, closes the door behind her. There is a bed. A desk. A lamp that stays across the room impedes the ease of tucking in with her book. The light shines upon the shelf in the corner, displaying relics from their old life. Framed art she gifted him, a beautifully worn copy of his favorite childhood book. Along another wall is a cheap piece of furniture she bought for her first apartment. Somehow it ended up in this new timeline. She never loved it. She snorts denial and turns off the lamp. The bed sheets welcome her with a coolness she wants to reject. The kind she would have run her fingers across at the store, then left for those who can afford to care about thread count.

A dreamless night. She wakes before everyone. Stretches and showers and prepares a hot drink in the dark kitchen. Just as she readies time with her own book in the living room, the rest of the house begins to wake. Breakfast first? Or gifts? Gentle ceremony is given to the awakening of the little one donning festive pajamas, eyelids crusty with sleep. He stands at the bottom of the stairs and videos this memory. She leans out of the way when his camera follows his youngest towards the tree.

A hill of wrapping paper collects at the foot of the couch. The children smile. The adults contemplate furthering their caffeine intake. The book that she left on the ottoman gets knocked around during playtime, new toys taking up space. She advocates for the novel's care in recognition of it belonging to another. Her request quickly forgotten when the spoils from a stocking are placed atop its cover.

There is a strained questioning between the pair. Should we open our gifts to each other now? Or after she leaves? They decide now. She watches more paper fall to the pile, revealing gifts that are boring but thoughtful. She times her smiles in order to hide the ache of watching him live his happily ever after before her own. She wants someone to buy her the good socks, the wool ones with stripes and extra cushion in the ankle.

Without force, there is an order to his efforts. Gifts from him, from least to greatest, a promise of something worthy of a dropped jaw and saucer eyes. Distant travel and seats in a large audience. Her brain irks her, a wonder about the finer details. How close to the stage they'd be and if they'll fly first class. They talk logistics in front of her. She's already forgotten the desire for socks.

She waits until they wander off to the kitchen to excuse herself from her child's side on the floor. The half bath serves as her provisional sanctuary, a toddler seat for the the youngest letting her know the only escape is anywhere but this house. The tears come without her permission. At the level of his gesture. At what she must have done wrong years ago that he didn't give her the same effort. At the grey in her hair. At the perfect seams in the bathroom's wallpaper.

He presents breakfast, more committed to the stove and fine recipes meant to entertain than his previous life. Eggs cooked over butter. Thick pancakes for the tot. A lamentation for not taking the time to make cappuccinos. Awkward sips from steaming cups of bland satisfaction help them limp to their goal of packing cars and driving toward holiday activities away from each other. Her child would go with them.

The table clears. She offers light help, stacks plates near the sink. She listens to her need to leave before they become witness to emotions she's never wanted to allow in their space. A retreat to the bedroom that isn't hers, unwanted tears leaden her escape. She packs her bag, wipes her face, quietly pleads for the return of calm. Her phone chimes.

"How did your Christmas morning go?"

She accepts how her honesty could incite rejection, deny her the next chapter. She pulls the zipper shut, readies herself for a drive toward isolation and oak to burn.

"Come here. Come spend it with us."

She drives towards warm welcome.