The Brass Key
At 4:10 on Christmas afternoon, a courier handed me a manila envelope while the ham I’d cooked for my son went cold behind me.
“Mrs. Bennett?”
“Yes.”
He was young. Maybe twenty. A red delivery company jacket. A Santa hat someone at the depot had probably made him wear. He checked his phone, handed me the envelope, and hurried back to his van without looking at me. Like he knew what was inside.
My daughter-in-law’s handwriting was across the front. Big loopy letters. Helen.
Inside was one card. A glossy one with a snowy cabin on the front and gold glitter that came off on my fingers.
Helen,
Sorry for the late change. We’re doing Christmas at Mom’s this year. It just worked out better for everyone. Hope you understand.
Merry Christmas,
Megan and Ryan
I read the last sentence twice.
Better for everyone.
Behind me, three places were set at my dining room table.
Three water glasses. The good crystal, the ones from our wedding. Three linen napkins folded into triangles the way my mother taught me. Three plates of my grandmother’s Christmas china with the holly around the edges.
Three slices of pecan pie already cut and waiting on the sideboard. Ryan had loved pecan pie since he was eight years old. He used to eat the pecans off the top first and save the filling for last.
The candles had burned almost halfway down.
