Sarah finished off her final ginger beer of the evening and rubbed tired eyes. She really should have been in bed an hour ago, but she was still too wired, so there was no point—she might as well stay up and wait until exhaustion pulled her closer toward relaxation. She watched the fireplace embers ripple and glow, and thought about the evening's events.

The get-together had gone well. Everyone they'd invited had attended, as usual: Jay Lombardi, Bob Gibbs, the older farmer who owned the place across the road, and her friend Kris. Jim and Greg had participated as well, though James was far more enthusiastic. Greg had kept to himself for the most part; still, he'd showed up for the annual Rook tournament and played against Kris, Gene and Bob. They'd set up at the dining room table while everyone else piled into the living room to listen to music, drink beer, eat the usual holiday goodies and share town gossip. Gene had revealed his new ugly sweater, purchased in Nebraska: bright scarlet with enormous stylized white, hot pink and orange snowflakes scattered all over it. Wilson had predicted burned retinas for the entire group. Everyone voted it second best in show, though Greg had won first prize—the big box of kirsch-filled chocolate Santas, a much-desired specialty from the village candy fund-raiser staged earlier that week by the local elementary school.

To her delighted surprise, Greg had joined the pickup session after supper. Granted, he stayed on the fringes and barely talked to anyone, but he'd participated, had even turned on his sweater's LED lights. Everyone had treated him with the calm, non-intrusive friendliness Sarah had come to expect from the people here. She'd watched Greg relax as he was included without an expectation to respond. Jim had kept an eye on him too, and used his flirtation with Kris as a cover. Kris had accepted it with good grace; she and Jim always made passes at each other and traded outrageous remarks, it was a game they'd played since they'd first met several years ago at the initial ugly sweater party. House had certainly noticed; his keen gaze took in every gesture and smile. He'd said nothing however, no snark or sarcasm. Undoubtedly he would pry any further information out of Jim on the way home tomorrow.

So proceedings had gone very well . . . until the phone call. Sarah had known it would come, had anticipated it for some time, but it still took her by surprise all the same. She'd slipped into the mudroom with the cordless, shivered a little in the cold, unwilling to call attention to herself with a move upstairs. In silence she'd listened to the slurred voice on the other end and winced as it rose in volume, demanded an answer from her.

"You gonna make yourself useful for once and give me what I want?"

"No," she said at last. "You know I won't."

Five long minutes later, the caller flung a last incoherent curse at her and hung up. She stood and stared down at the phone in her hand. Only when the disconnect screech brought her back to the present did she look up to find Greg there. He stood in the doorway and said nothing, only turned away. Sarah clicked the phone off and followed him, almost chilled through and numb. By the time she had reached the living room she'd pulled herself together enough to prevent unwelcome questions. Gene had known, though. Within moments he was by her side, to slip his arm about her waist as he brought her close. For once she allowed herself to take some strength from his protectiveness, even as she remembered their recent fight and hated her hypocrisy.

Now here she was, ready to ignore the good company and fun she'd enjoyed along with everyone else, focused on the brief call that had shattered her composure and left her sick inside. You'd think I'd be able to shake it off by now, she thought. You'd think I'd take my own advice and let this go. But the pain wouldn't leave. It stayed lodged deep in her heart like a barbed arrowhead, meant to cause damage no matter how she tried to deal with it. Sarah pressed her forehead to her knees and closed her eyes.

I've worked so hard to make good memories here, she thought. She and Gene both had an unspoken agreement about holidays; they shared as many of them together as possible. It wasn't all that hard since they were both estranged from their families to a large degree, but they'd both made it a priority. This home had become their place of refuge, and they'd filled it with good things of all kinds. It helped, but at a moment like this she still felt stripped of her defenses, vulnerable. She fought against the tide of quiet despair as it approached her, and did her best not to slip under its black waters.

December 26th

Quite some time after everyone has gone home, in the small hours of the morning, Greg finds Sarah in the living room curled up on the couch. In the dying light of the fire it is possible to see she is still awake. She doesn't look at him when he perches on the arm of the chair next to her and stretches his leg. The ache is a bit less now that he's taken his meds, but it's still a presence.

"Who was it?" he asks quietly, though he already has a pretty good idea. He remembers the expression on her face as she'd held the receiver to her ear and listened. If he had to come up with an analogy, she'd looked like someone forced to drink poison.

"It was my mother," she says. There is a wealth of pain in that simple statement.

"So the woman hasn't completely fried her brain." He twiddles his cane between his fingers. "Impressive. Either that's due to excellent genetics or really watered down dope."

"It's not from lack of trying." Sarah lifts her head and tips it back to rest on the couch. She hugs her knees, folded in tight on herself.

"Let me guess. She wants you to play cash machine or drug dispenser."

"Both would be ideal, though I'm sure if Gene gave her a box of fentanyl patches she'd be just as happy." Somehow there is no bitterness in Sarah's voice. "They're worth a lot on the black market. She'd sell a few of them and keep enough to stay stoned for a week or so." She sighs softly. "I don't give her money for obvious reasons. Drugs are completely out of the question, of course."

"You haven't pushed to get her into rehab." He watches her closely. Sarah shakes her head.

"I tried a few times, but she made it clear she wasn't interested. Sobriety was never on her list of priorities anyway."

"She's a total loser," he says. "You should just say the hell with it and walk away."

"She's my mom," Sarah says at last.

"So what? She's not worth it. Biology doesn't mean jack."

"I want to give her the chance to change."

"You just said she doesn't want to change. She made your life miserable," he says, angry with her now. "She was supposed to take care of you and she didn't. She's a selfish asshole, a bitch. She deserves to die alone."

"I'm well aware of what she didn't do for any of her children." Sarah sounds tired. "But there's always the outside chance that someday she'll be sober for real."

"Yeah, that fairy tale will come true," he snaps. "You're going to welcome her with open arms, all is forgiven, you get the mom you always wanted. I call bullshit."

"She'll never be the mom I wanted," Sarah says quietly. "I stopped wishing for that a long time ago. But if she asked for forgiveness, there would still be a place for her at my table."

"You're letting her break your heart," he says eventually, astounded at her willful idiocy. "She'll never do anything else."

"I know." The bleakness in her soft voice reveals the depth of her comprehension, and her own pain. He waits for her to say more, but she is silent. After a moment he leaves the room, unable to bear her grief a moment longer.

He lies awake for a long time that night, and thinks of what Sarah revealed to him. She didn't have to answer any of his questions, she could have told him to fuck off, or just walked away. Instead she was honest. She allowed him to witness one of her great weaknesses. He knows that's what it is by the level of pain she endures; she wants a mother she'll never have. Part of the pain comes from that desire, but the greater part comes from the knowledge that it's a hopeless desire. She will always be motherless in the worst way, with her mom still alive but dead to her in every way that counts except the physical. That probably won't be too far off either, from the sound of it.

Greg thinks of his own mother. Blythe is the kind of person most people would consider a model mom. He remembers his words to Cameron after a visit from his parents: 'She was a housewife . . . married forty-seven years . . . just like everyone else, nice enough, no great sense of humor, hates confrontation.' She'd taken care of him, made sure he was clothed, fed, given some attention, got what he needed and a few things he wanted too. And she loved him, still does. Compared to someone like Sarah, that's pure wealth. He knows it. But he also knows she created a bastard in more ways than one, and she also left the discipline to John and never interfered or protested no matter what happened, though she tried to defend him when she could.

He feels the inevitable roil of guilt and anger inside even as he thinks it. At least he had someone in his corner now and then. From what he's read in Sarah's journal, from what he's seen tonight, she's been alone from a very young age. No wonder she's created this place, a haven of warmth and every good thing she could cram into it. She needs this fortress in the same way he needs his shell, to stay safe. That's good to know, and a nice weapon if things get dicey with the therapy and he wants to get out. He knows it'll happen sooner or later.

Sleep is impossible at this point. He heaves himself upright and wonders if Sarah is still in the living room. He wants to borrow the Martin, play a bit so he can push his thoughts to the back of his brain and let music take over for a while. Slowly he goes to his door, opens it just a crack. The living room appears empty. He sidles out and limps into the living room as quietly as possible. The guitar cases sit next to the easy chair. He leans down to open the second case and hears a soft breath. He hesitates, turns just a bit as best he can on his bad leg.

Sarah is asleep on the couch. She has the throw draped over her, and her head rests on a cushion. In the dying firelight he can see her eyes are a bit swollen, and there are still damp spots on the fabric under her cheek. Of course she cried herself to sleep. Greg looks down at her. He wonders how many times she's done this in her life, how many nights she's faced loneliness and pain. After a few moments he turns away, opens the case, extracts the Martin, and goes off to his room, to close the door behind him.