Free Once Upon A Christmas Eve: A Novella by Katie Klein Page B

you guys want to take the food and set it on the table, we’ll start eating in just a minute.”
    Everyone grabs a bowl or platter—a main course, a side, a basket of wheat rolls. Dad shuts off his phone as we file into the dining room, stands, takes the casserole dish from Amanda. We each find a seat—Amanda beside my dad, Jonathan beside me. There are two places left—only one at the other head of the table. Someone has to sit beside her. My sister tosses me a withering look. I shrug, apologetic. And I can almost hear the groan of disappointment as she pulls out the chair beside my dad’s girlfriend, because we both know she would never make Mom sit beside her. 
    “Do we have everything?” Mom asks, scanning the table.
    “It looks wonderful, Kathleen,” Dad says.
    “Thank you. I did make a roast for our non-vegetarian guests,” she announces.
    “That’s everyone but you ,” Sam reminds her.
    Our laughter comes from the kindest, most appreciative possible place. Even Mom finds the humor in this. And for a second it’s as if nothing has changed. We are still a family—just a bit more expanded than we were this time last year. And mom is cancer-free. And this is the first of what will be many more Christmases together. I pass Jonathan a grateful glance—Jonathan, eyes alight with amusement. 
    “We should say a blessing,” Mom says, a smile relaxing her face.
    At the other end of the table Dad opens his mouth to protest, suddenly not interested in blessing things anymore—ready to remind us that this was always Mom’s thing. A special event thing.
    “I’ll do it,” she says quickly, saving him.
    She holds her hands out. Jonathan takes one, reaches for mine with the other. I take Dad’s, who holds Amanda. Sam connects Amanda and my mother. And here we are, a circle. Connected. Bound to each other, if only for this brief moment in time.
    “Thank you for this beautiful Christmas Eve,” my mom begins, eyes closed, peaceful. “For old friends and new friends and family—loved ones to share it with. May we carry our love and gratitude into the new year.”
    It can’t be my imagination that Jonathan squeezes my hand tighter at the words, that he mumbles an “Amen” to echo my mother’s.
    “You don’t eat meat,” I remind Mom as dishes pass from person to person, as she cuts off a sliver of roast.
    “I know. It’s been so long, though. Just a tiny, tiny taste,” she says.
    “Roger, Jonathan is from Hamilton. He’s a sophomore at Northwestern,” Amanda says.
    “Really? I’ve been trying to get Sam and Livy to consider Northwestern.”
    “Yeah, it’s a great school,” Jonathan says. “I love it there.”
    “Are you in the dorms?” Dad asks.
    “Apartments, actually. Four of us share a suite.”
    “Didn’t know they did that these days.”
    “My dad went to Northwestern,” I explain.
    “Oh. Cool. Go Huskies,” Jonathan says.
    Dad nods. “I think if the girls would spend a weekend with us, visit the campus, they would love it.”
    “If that ever happens, I’d be happy to show you around,” Jonathan offers. Both he and Dad look at me, expectant. Sam frowns across the table.
    I clear my throat, spear a bite of potatoes with my fork, continue eating. “Yeah. Maybe.”
    “We’ll be in Hamilton on the fifteenth,” Mom reminds us. “I have an appointment that afternoon, but maybe we can all meet for dinner.”
    Amanda looks at my Dad, and I know what she’s thinking—I can almost read her thoughts as if they’re my own, because they are my own. We agreed on Christmas dinner. A one-time event. This—these little get togethers—should not become tradition. The norm.
    “Trent Andrews says ‘hey,’” I tell my sister, effectively changing the subject.
    “He’s still at Lawrence, right?” she asks, playing along.
    “Said he’s on the five-year plan.”
    “I’d consider sending you over there to see how he’s doing,” Mom begins, “but I remember him being something