My Husband Missed Our Dying Son’s Final Christmas

The neighbor's name was Mrs. Peterson. She lived three houses down, and she made the best gingerbread cookies in the neighborhood. She knocked on our door at seven-thirty, a tin of cookies balanced in her mittened hands and a paper Santa hat perched on her gray hair. She was smiling, the kind of warm, genuine smile that made you feel seen.

I opened the door. Brayden was beside me, holding my hand. He'd been standing there for the past hour, watching the door like he was waiting for something to change.

"Merry Christmas, Erin!" Mrs. Peterson's voice was bright, crackling with holiday cheer. "I made extras this year. Thought you and Nikolai might want to—" She stopped, her eyes landing on the luggage in the hallway. "Oh! Are you having guests?" Her gaze shifted between Brayden and me, confusion creeping into her expression. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to intrude. I just thought..." She trailed off, looking at Brayden's pale face, the way he leaned against me.

"No intrusion, Margaret." Nikolai's voice came from the kitchen. He appeared in the doorway, a wine glass in one hand, the bottle in the other. Lilith stood behind him, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. She was smiling too, but it was different—polished, practiced. "Just some distant relatives from out of state. They're just passing through for the holidays. Aren't you, Erin?"

I felt Brayden's hand tighten in mine. I looked down at him. He was staring up at Nikolai, his small face very still. Then he looked up at me, his eyes dark and endless.

I didn't say anything. I couldn't. The words stuck in my throat like thorns.

Mrs. Peterson's smile faltered. "Oh, I see. Well, I won't interrupt your family gathering. Just wanted to drop these off." She held out the tin of cookies. Her eyes lingered on Brayden, on the way he swayed slightly, on the pallor of his skin. "Is everything alright, dear? You look..."

"Everything's fine," Nikolai cut in smoothly, taking the tin from her hands. "Thank you for thinking of us. Merry Christmas." He stepped forward, effectively blocking the doorway, and Mrs. Peterson took the hint.

"Yes, well. Merry Christmas to you all." She glanced at me one last time, her brow furrowed with concern, and then she was gone, her footsteps crunching on the salted walkway.

Nikolai closed the door. He turned to Lilith, his face softening. "That was close. I don't need the whole neighborhood asking questions." He set the wine bottle down on the entryway table and poured a glass for her. "Here. You look like you could use this."

Lilith took the glass, her fingers brushing his. "Thank you. You're always taking care of me."

I stood there, still holding Brayden's hand. He was trembling now, a fine, almost invisible tremor that ran through his small body. I squeezed his hand gently, but he didn't look at me. He was watching Nikolai pour more wine, laughing softly at something Lilith whispered in his ear.

Over the next few days, Lilith settled into our home like she'd always belonged there. She moved through the rooms with a quiet confidence, rearranging things—the throw pillows on the couch, the dishes in the kitchen cabinets, the photos on the mantle. She did it with a smile, a soft "Don't you think this looks better?" as she swapped out Brayden's favorite mug for one of her own.

She took over the living room sofa, curling up there with her laptop while Indie sprawled on the floor, coloring in Brayden's books. When Brayden reached for his own stuffed bear, the one he'd slept with since he was a baby, Indie snatched it away, squealing with delight.

"Indie, honey," Lilith said gently, "you have to share. That's not yours."

"But I want it!" Indie clutched the bear to her chest, her small face screwed up in determination.

Lilith sighed, looking at Brayden with a mixture of pity and impatience. "Brayden, you're the big boy here. Can't you let her have it? Just for a little while?"

Brayden looked at the bear in Indie's hands. His bear. The one with the missing eye, the one he'd cried into when the machines beeped too loud at night. He looked at Lilith, then at Nikolai, who was watching the whole thing with a bored expression.

"It's okay," Brayden said quietly. "She can have it."

That night, I stood in the dark hallway outside the guest room, my fist pressed to my mouth. Through the thin walls, I could hear Lilith's voice, soft and amused, talking on the phone.

"No, the wife is harmless. She just mopes around. I almost feel sorry for her. Almost."

There was a pause, and then she laughed—a low, intimate sound. "Don't worry. Nikolai's completely under my thumb. He doesn't even see her anymore. It's kind of pathetic, actually. The way she follows him around like a lost puppy."

I stood there, my fist still pressed to my mouth, and listened to her laugh. The sound scraped against my eardrums like sandpaper.

At dinner, Nikolai sat at the head of the table, Lilith to his right, Indie to his left. I sat across from him, Brayden beside me. The table was set with the good china—the set Nikolai's mother had given us for our wedding. Lilith had insisted on using it, saying it was a special occasion.

Nikolai cut Indie's chicken into small, perfect pieces. He made airplane noises with the fork, zooming the food toward her mouth while she giggled and opened wide. "Here comes the airplane! Open wide, little pilot!"

Across the table, Brayden watched. His hands were too weak to hold his own spoon steady, so I fed him in silence, one small bite at a time. He didn't complain. He didn't cry. He just watched, his eyes following the fork as it made its journey from plate to mouth, over and over again.

Nikolai never once glanced in Brayden's direction. Not once. It was like he didn't exist.