children had simply decided that Christmas dinner at their mother’s house was not worth attending.
I called Laura first.
Straight to voicemail.
I called Michael next.
Voicemail again.
Fiona let the phone ring twice before sending me away.
So I sat at the head of that beautiful table like a woman hired to decorate her own abandonment.
Nine o’clock passed.
Then ten.
Then eleven.
By 12:15 a.m., a skin had formed over the gravy, the cider had gone cold, and the turkey had changed from perfect to pitiful.
