I arrived at my in-laws’ house without warning on Christmas Eve. I found my son scrubbing floors in his underwear while their grandchildren opened presents by the tree. My wife was laughing with them. I walked in, picked up my son, and said five words. My mother-in-law’s champagne glass shattered.
Three days later—
47 missed calls.
At 38, Frank O’Connell had transitioned from investigative journalism at the Chicago Tribune to running his own production company, Undercurrent Media. The move had been Ashley’s idea three years ago, back when she still looked at him like he’d hung the moon instead of like he was a burden she’d inherited.
His phone buzzed. Another text from Ashley: Running late. Mom needs help with the Christmas decorating. Can you get Todd from school? Frank glanced at the calendar. December 20th. This would be the fourth time this week Christa Raymond had needed help with something.
He typed back, Got him. See you tonight.
The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the suburban Chicago street as Frank pulled up to Meadowbrook Elementary. Todd emerged from the building small for his seven years, shoulders hunched in a way that made Frank’s chest tighten. Other kids rushed past him, shouting and laughing, but Todd walked alone.
“Hey, buddy!” Frank reached over to open the passenger door.
Todd climbed in, his backpack nearly as big as he was. “Hi, Dad.”
“How was school?”
“Fine.”
Frank had been conducting interviews for fifteen years. He knew evasion when he heard it.
“What did you do in class? You had that snowman project, right?”
Todd’s jaw tightened, a gesture so similar to Frank’s own that it was like looking in a mirror. “Mrs. Patterson said it was good.”
“Can I see it?”
“I left it there.” Todd stared out the window, fixed on the classroom display as if he could will the subject away.
Frank knew his son was lying. He also knew that pushing now, in the car, wouldn’t help.
“Want to stop for hot chocolate?”
For the first time, Todd’s face brightened. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Just us?”
“We can go to Bernie’s.”
Twenty minutes later, they sat in a corner booth at Bernie’s diner, the kind of place that still had vinyl seats and served breakfast all day. Todd wrapped both hands around his mug, marshmallows melting into white swirls.
“Dad,” Todd said quietly. “Are we going to Grandma Christa’s for Christmas?”
“That’s the plan.” Frank watched his son’s fingers tighten around the mug.
Todd shrugged, but his knuckles stayed white. “Just wondering.”
Frank leaned forward. “You can talk to me about anything, Todd. You know that, right?”
“I know, but—” Todd’s eyes stayed fixed on his hot chocolate.
Frank’s phone buzzed again. Ashley: Can you bring the good champagne when you come for dinner tomorrow? Mom’s making her special lamb.
He texted back, Sure.
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