Free One Imperfect Christmas by Myra Johnson Page A

Where's your faith in Mom's love? Don't you believe she'd forgive you in a heartbeat if she could ever speak the words?”
     
    Her voice lowered to a pained whisper. “That's just it. She isn't going to get better. She'll never be able to tell me she forgives me.”
     
    “I'm through listening to this garbage.” He squared himself in front of her and gripped her shoulders. His fingers dug into her arms until she met his unyielding stare. “You're coming inside, and you're going to put a smile on your face and at least act like you're enjoying your birthday dinner. And afterward we'll put some Christmas music on the stereo like we do every year on your birthday, and we'll help Dad decorate the tree. And then, when we're all done, if you still want to, you can take your pity party home and cry your little heart out.”
     
    Grabbing her hand, he all but dragged her into the house.
     
    “Just in time, you two.” With sunflower-print oven mitts, Dad set the huge kettle of chili in the middle of the table next to a basket of piping-hot corn muffins. A hint of worry creased his eyes. “Everything okay?”
     
    “Sure, Dad. Hart and I just got to talking, that's all.” Natalie's voice rang high and tight, and she doubted even her eternally optimistic father would be fooled by her false assurance. “Mmmm. The chili smells wonderful. Mom would be proud.”
     
    With a strained smile she took her place at the table and helped herself to a bowl full of chili, a meal she felt certain she would not be able to eat.
     

     
    The bland, boring aromas of lemon-glazed chicken and mixed vegetables—the frozen kind, not home-cooked— wafted through the narrow apartment kitchen as Daniel waited for two microwave dinners to warm. Gazing into the night through the mini-blinds over the kitchen sink, he reflected on a lousy day that had only grown worse. His stomach heaved with a gnawing emptiness far more intense than mere physical hunger.
     
    Nothing made sense to him anymore, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many times he begged God to help him figure it all out. More and more often, he found himself losing focus on what he was supposed to be teaching in his history class, or, just like today at basketball practice, he'd stare out the gym windows instead of paying attention to the drills he'd assigned.
     
    “You in there, Coach?” one of the boys finally asked, waving a hand in front of his eyes.
     
    Thank goodness Carl was willing to cut him some slack, even cover for him from time to time, as he had today. Anyone else might have fired him a long time ago.
     
    Thoughts of his job brought to mind another prime source of contention between him and Natalie—his goal to move on to a larger school and a better coaching position. When he heard about the possible vacancy over at the high school, he'd taken it as a sign he needed to stay here and work things out with his wife. Until that job possibility went up in smoke too. He might as well admit it. His career had hit a dead end and so had his marriage.
     
    Almost a year had passed since Belinda's stroke, and his marriage had been on shaky ground for nearly as long. How could he hold out hope that things might still get better? How long before Natalie pressed him for a divorce? It was a word he couldn't even bring himself to say aloud, and yet it appeared inevitable. He clenched his jaw. How had things gotten this crazy?
     
    The microwave beeped, and Daniel removed the dinners he had been heating for his and Lissa's supper. He winced as the hot containers burned his fingers. With greater care, he peeled away the cellophane from one dinner and scraped the steaming contents onto a plate. The meager chicken breast and mound of shriveled vegetables made the plate look huge.
     
    “Lissa, supper's ready,” he called down the hall. “You can come out of your room now.”
     
    The closed door muffled her angry reply. “I'm not hungry!”
     
    Daniel eyed the second dinner