The last few of these have been Serena at her absolute worst, so I wanted to write one that showed her on one of her slightly better days! Prompt from Brittany.

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Christmas

Gifts of time and love are surely the basic ingredients of a truly merry Christmas. ~ Peg Bracken

"Merry Christmas Darling."

It was just after 8am and my mom was sat on the end of my bed, wearing a nightshirt with candy canes on it. Beside her was a stocking, and out of the top I could just see an orange and a bag of nuts poking out.

I shook my head sleepily. Something was really very wrong with this picture. I'd gone to bed the night before as normal and yet apparently had woken up in the middle of a Christmas movie.

I sat up, rubbing my eyes, completely confused. "Merry what?"

My mom smiled, "Merry Christmas silly. That is the usual refrain, isn't it?"

My first thought was that she was drunk but as she leaned in to hug me I was able to confirm that she wasn't, because I couldn't smell the usual stench on her breath. I was relieved, but still confused, and concerned that actually, finally, she'd lost it. I looked at her, a serious look on my face.

"Mom. It's the usual refrain in December. But we're in February. What's going on?"

She took me by the hand and led me from my bed, out of my bedroom and into the living room where…

"Holy shit!" I ignored the disapproving look my mom gave me – I learnt all the worst cuss words from her anyway – and stared around the room wide eyed, "Someone upchucked Christmas all over the living room."

Seriously. It was all there, the tree, the decorations, and gifts, piles of them. I was amazed but, even more so, puzzled.

"It's February." I said again.

My mom nodded, and I realised she was close to tears. I gripped her hand, "Mom? What's going on?"

She took a deep breath to steady herself, to get her emotions in check so she could speak, but when she did so, it was me who nearly ended up in tears.

"It is February. But in December I was face down in the Christmas tree, and you were curled up on your bed eating noodles for Christmas Dinner. It was a bad Christmas; the worst Christmas. I wanted us to try again. Can we?"

I blinked back the tears, completely conflicted. On one hand, this was my mom all over. She'd mess up time and time again and then want second chances. But at the same time, she'd gone to so much trouble and I did want the Christmas she'd laid on. I wanted it more than anything. I looked up at her, feeling, not for the first time in my life, way older than my 12 years.

"Are you gonna drink?"

She didn't wince at the question, instead just shook her head, "No." That ought to have been enough for me, but then this was my mother I was dealing with. My eyes narrowed,

"Not even with 'Christmas' dinner? Not even a glass of Champagne because it's," I made those speech mark things with my fingers, "Christmas?"

Again, she didn't seem angered by my question, which was odd, because she'd never liked my questioning her drinking in the past. Instead she just shook her head a second time.

"I said I wouldn't. I promise I won't." I didn't have anything to say to that. I'd heard her special kind of easy to break promises too many times in the past. "I've not had a drink since midnight on New Years Eve Olivia. I'm done with it."

Again, I'd heard it before. My mom had been in and out of rehab my whole life. And when she was dry, she was an ok mom, but the sad truth was it never lasted long. She always came off the wagon in the end. She must have noticed that I didn't look convinced because she pulled me round to face her, still holding my hands, and looked my right in the eyes.

"You know why I stopped right?"

I stiffened at her words. I knew alright. I remembered the night back in October when my world had come tumbling down; when she brought my world tumbling down. But that didn't mean I wanted to talk about it. At the time? Maybe. No, actually, definitely, but she'd been too out of it, too drunk, too wrapped up in everything that was wrong with her world to care how I felt. But now, it was too late. I'd done my hurting, done my suffering, I'd been all upset and confused and scared, and all on my own I'd found a way to move past it. To live with where I'd come from.

I wasn't going to talk to her about it four months later to make her feel better. She'd made her choice. She could have been my mom then, but she'd been a drunk instead.

All the same, I wanted her to know that I knew exactly why she'd stopped drinking, I wanted her to know I hadn't forgotten that lousy night and the 8 weeks that followed where she'd been out of it 24/7. I nodded slowly, and put on my most stern voice. The one I always use when I want people to take me seriously. "I know why you stopped. It took you too long but I'm glad you did it. But that doesn't mean I want to talk about it."

She gave me the look she always gives me when I use 'the voice', her 'you're just a kid and you shouldn't talk to me like that but I'm going to have to take it' look and then she did something she rarely does. She reached out and hugged me. Then she looked me in the eye again and smiled sadly,

"Ok. But you know I'm here, if you do want to talk about it."

I nodded, because she was my mom, and because it was 'Christmas' and because she'd made such a crazy effort trimming up the apartment over night, but there was no way I was ever going to talk to her about it. She'd had her chance. She'd blown it. Besides which any offer of help from my mom was only ever good for as long as it took her to get drunk again.

We let the subject drop, and I looked around the room once more, wondering how far 'pretend' Christmas was going to stretch. Would we have Christmas dinner? Play games? Or was it all going to be a mere façade like her usual motherly gestures. "So," I asked, trying to play it cool, "What are we doing today?"

My mom smiled, "Well how about presents, 'It's a Wonderful Life', lunch, 'Mary Poppins', Charades and then we could sit by the fire and read 'A Christmas Carol'. How does that sound?"

It sounded crazy. It sounded like no Christmas I'd ever had, yet every Christmas I'd ever coveted. And so, although I wanted to tell my mom there were no second chances, I just couldn't do it.

I hugged her, "It sounds amazing." I felt a lump rising in my throat that I swallowed quickly, because mom hates it when I cry nearly as much as I do. "Thank you."

My mom looked at me, squeezing my hands tightly, "You have nothing to thank me for Olivia."

On the whole, it was true, in fact it crossed my mind that never had a truer word been spoken, but at that moment I didn't want her to believe it.

"Don't say that." I whispered, "You can't talk like that at Christmas."

I thought mom was going to cry then, but she didn't, instead she got to her feet and went over to the Christmas tree where she selected a beautifully gift wrapped parcel and handed it to me. "Open this one first."

I took it, and ripped it open like the excited child I'd never really had the chance to be, and when I saw what was inside I was astounded for what felt like the millionth time that day.

It was a book. And I knew why she'd chosen it, but I didn't know how she'd known to do so. I looked at her questioningly,

"The History of the NYPD?"

She nodded, "I thought you might pick up some tips."

"How did you know?" I asked, sounding bemused. I'd not told her about my brand new dream of joining the police, even though I'd thought of nothing else for the last four months; even though it seemed like the answer to everything.

"I overheard you talking to Rosa." She explained, "You were asking her about how you'd apply."

I laughed, remembering our cleaner's funny answer, "She said the first thing I had to do was wait ten years." My mom laughed too but she quickly became serious again,

"Is this because of your father? Because of what I told you?"

My go at turning serious, at putting on 'my voice' again, "I don't have a father. And I told you, I don't want to talk about it. But," my voice softened as for the first time in as long as I could remember, I looked to my mom for approval, "What do you think? To my plan?"

She sat beside me, wrapping her arm around my shoulder, "Honestly? It scares the hell out of me, Olivia. But I'm proud of you, for making that decision. Anyway," she moved on, oblivious to the effect her words had had on me, "do you want another present?"

I opened my mouth to speak, but I couldn't. I was lost for words. And I certainly didn't need another present. My mom was proud of me. What more could I possibly ask for?