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“I don’t understand. Didn’t you celebrate the holidays with your foster families?” Mary looked confused.

This is why I hated talking about my time in foster care. I almost always had to burst people’s bubble about foster care being nice, caring families who did things like give the foster kid a decent Christmas or celebrate their birthday. I was sure there were some families who tried to make their foster kids feel like part of the family, but unfortunately, none of my many foster families had been in it for more than what they thought was easy money.

“The state doesn’t pay for extras like holiday gifts,” I explained. “So, when you’re a foster kid you learn to not expect anything.”

This was why every year I gave a generous donation to a local charity that brought holiday gifts to kids in the system. I knew how important it was to those kids to have something special too.

“Sometimes the families would include us in the dinners or give us a tiny gift of some sort, but most of the time they’d leave us some TV dinners or a frozen pizza and let us entertain ourselves while they spent time with their families for the holidays. Or sometimes they’d ask us to stay in our bedroom while they celebrated with their families.”

I looked up to see all three Jeffers staring at me in horror. My eyes returned to my plate. I hated being pitied. And this wasn’t even the worst part of growing up in foster care. I wasn’t going to tell them about the foster parents who hit us or the dads and foster brothers who had grabby hands once I came into my breasts.

“So anyway, I didn’t really pick up any holiday traditions of my own.”

After a long silence I looked up again to see Mary staring at me, eyes watery like she was fixing to cry. Suddenly she leapt out of her chair and came over to give me a big hug.

As she pressed my face tightly against her generous cleavage she whispered, “You’ll have a traditional Christmas with us this year. Even if things don’t work out with you and Peter, you’ll still join us, this year and every year. Promise me.”

“Um.”

She squeezed tighter, and I choked out, “Okay, I promise.”

Peter

Abby’s casual retelling of her terrible holidays in foster care damn near broke my heart. I didn’t know her very well yet, but I instinctively knew she wouldn’t want us to make a big thing about what she shared.

“Mama, quit smothering her and let’s get decorating.”

My mother released my future wife, and after clearing the table, we got to work setting up the living room for Christmas. Mama turned on a Christmas song playlist she liked, the familiar tunes playing through the speakers set up in the corners of the room. Abby and I started putting the lights on the tree while my parents unpacked the boxes. There were a lot of them. Allen and I had spent part of the morning helping our father drag them all down from the attic.

“Is that all going on the tree?” Abby whispered to me.

I shook my head.

“Oh no, it’s a whole thing. There will be a Christmas village in front of the fireplace, a Nativity scene on the other wall, and decorations on the walls, doors, and windows.”

“Good Lord, we’ll be here all night.”

I had better things I’d like to do all night, starting with licking my way up her body, but I resisted mentioning that right now.

“We’ll just do the tree tonight,” Mama interjected. “I’ll work on the village and Nativity in the morning after we feed the animals.”

We worked together putting on the ornaments, Mama chattering the whole time. She had some story for almost every ornament, and I could tell her sharing was making Abby feel more comfortable. She might not have celebrated Christmas that much, but she took right to decorating, even getting into a good natured discussion with my mother about the correct placement of some of the more elaborate ornaments.

When Abby walked away to use the rest room, my mother pulled me into a hug.

“Oh my God, Petey,” she said, using the nickname she’d saddled me with as a kid. “She’s perfect for you. You have to keep her.”

“I’m tryin’, Mama, but I’ve known her for less than twelve hours. Give me some time.”

She pinched my cheek. “Just don’t mess it up.”

When Abby and I headed back to my house, it was still snowing, although not as heavy as when we left. Still, we had to have gotten at least two inches. The snow crunched under our feet, and when Abby slipped a little in her running shoes, I grabbed her hand and held on tight.

“I should have gotten you some boots,” I said. “Those aren’t the kind of shoes that are meant for this weather.”

“Well, I wasn’t expecting any of this,” she reminded me. “And even if I had, I don’t exactly have snow boots at home.”

Suddenly she paused, staring out at an expanse of the yard with a speculative look on her face.