Page 6 of The Scrooge Effect

“It’s just a holiday.”

“It’s the birth of Jesus,” she reminded me for the tenth time this year, just as she did every year.

“Maybe you believe all that shit⁠—”

“Eduardo Markham, do not start this crap with me. I know you believe, too. And I know you want this for your kids. You just have to pull your head out of your ass for five seconds, and then you’d realize what you’re doing to your family.”

I pried her arms from around me, laughing as I stepped away. “What I’m doing to them? Look, I don’t give a shit if you want to decorate or put up a tree…do whatever you want. Just don’t force this shit down my throat. And stop telling the kids there’s a Santa.”

“But…that’s part of Christmas!”

“And it’s all a fucking lie!”

“Edu—”

“No, I’m sick of this shit. I’ll get you your damn tree and do all the shit you want, but I’m not doing it a day before the week of Christmas.”

Tears filled her eyes as she stared at me. I knew I was breaking her heart, and yet, I couldn’t stop myself. I was just so damn angry. And today was just a reminder of how shitty this time of year was. I didn’t want to think of any of it.

“I thought we were past this,” she whispered. “I thought you had put it behind you.”

“Yeah, well…” Laughing, I downed the rest of my drink, setting the glass on the counter.

“You’re going to regret this one day,” she whispered. “Maybe not now, but when they have kids and they don’t know how to enjoy Christmas, you’re going to wish you had done things differently. And you’ll hate yourself for it.”

“Somehow, I doubt that. Besides, when they’re older, they can make up their own minds. It’s not like what I say will make any difference.”

“Really? Are you sure about that?”

“If they’re anything like you, they’ll still love Christmas whether I do or not.”

She scoffed, shoving away from the counter. “Take a long, hard look at yourself, and then tell me you really believe that.”

I didn’t need to take a hard look at myself. I already knew I was a little fucked up, but it had nothing to do with whether or not I celebrated Christmas, and everything to do with the fact that my father murdered my mother, and I hadn’t come when she called.

Tossing back the rest of my drink, I stared at the Christmas cookies spread all over the kitchen counter on baking racks. The sink was filled with dirty bowls of batter and caked-on frosting. Spatulas stuck up at awkward angles and parchment overflowed from the garbage can.

The place was a fucking disaster.

And all because of Christmas.

Fuck, I really hated this holiday.

Grace came running back into the room, her lip pulled in between her teeth. She was so fucking adorable, but right now, she looked sad.

“Gracie, what’s going on?”

“Daddy, why won’t you put up the tree?”

If Harper put her up to this, I was going to strangle her. “Because Christmas is a fake holiday.”

“What does fake mean?”

“It means it’s not real. All this holiday cheer and Santa Claus, it’s not real.”

Her eyes went wide. “Santa’s not real?”

“Baby—”