Part 1
Part 1 · 3 min read ·
The Christmas Invitation
The message arrived on a cold December evening, while I was still at the office, watching the lights of Phoenix come on one by one beneath a violet sky.
I recognized the name before I had finished reading it.
Grant Mercer.
Eight years had passed since my former husband had walked out of our marriage after I told him I was pregnant. Eight years since he accused me of inventing the pregnancy to keep him from taking a job overseas, filed for divorce, changed his number, and left me to learn how to carry on without him.
Now he was inviting me to Christmas dinner.
I read the message twice, then once more, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less strange.
Come to Mom’s house in Salt Lake City on Christmas Day. She wants to see you before she sells the place. It would be good for everyone to have one last holiday there.
A laugh escaped me, though there was nothing funny in it. Grant must still have imagined me as the frightened young woman he had left behind, waiting for his family’s approval and wondering how I might persuade him to come home. He could not have known what my life had become.
My assistant, Marcy, appeared in the doorway, holding a folder against her chest. She had been with me through the years when four babies seemed to need me at the same time, when I was learning to run a design firm while learning to be a mother, and when exhaustion could make even a quiet room feel loud.
She glanced at my phone. “Is that him?”
I nodded.
“And he wants you to go to Utah for Christmas?”
I looked out at the city again. “He does.”
Marcy set the folder on my desk. “Are you thinking about going?”
“I’m going,” I said.
On Christmas morning, the four children who had filled my life with noise, wonder, and purpose climbed aboard a small chartered plane with me. Noah, Eli, June, and Lily were eight years old, dressed in matching sweaters they had chosen themselves: red for the boys, dark green for the girls. Their excitement made the cabin feel warmer than it was.
Each of them had something of Grant in their face—the shape of a smile, the tilt of a chin, a particular look they gave when they were concentrating. Even after all these years, the resemblance could catch me by surprise.
Noah adjusted his collar and peered across the aisle at me. “Are we really meeting Grandma Lorraine today?”
“Yes, sweetheart.”
June leaned toward the window. “And the cousins?”
“Some of them, I think.”
Lily turned from the snowy mountains gathering below us. “Will our dad be there?”
I took a moment before answering. I had always wanted to tell my children the truth in a way they could carry without being burdened by it. They knew Grant was their biological father. They knew he had not been part of their childhood. They had seen photographs, and they had asked their questions in the careful, uneven way children do when they are trying to understand an adult matter.
“Yes,” I said. “He’ll be there.”
Eli looked thoughtful. “Do we have to call him Dad?”
“No,” I replied. “You may call him Grant. You can decide what feels right, and you can take your time.”
At 11:47 that morning, our plane touched down on a wide lawn blanketed in snow beside the home of Grant’s mother, Lorraine. The house stood beyond a row of bare trees, grand and old-fashioned, with tall windows and a stone porch. I stepped down first, then helped the children onto the path.