“Shadows of Christmas: Catherine’s Dream”
“Christmas at my parents’!” announced James, embracing Catherine. “Katie, it’ll be brilliant!”
“Your parents?” She frowned. “Why not stay home?”
“What’s there to do at home? Stare at the frost on the windowpane? The city’s packed this time of year, but out in the countryside—woods, hills, the frozen pond. Emily will love it! I promise, you’ll have a grand time.”
Catherine and James had married four months earlier. Their courtship had been long, but she’d hesitated to marry again. Nine years had passed since her first husband’s death, yet the pain lingered. Emily had been just six months old when her father was gone. Catherine could never reconcile the loss—he’d missed her first steps, never heard her say “Daddy.” Emily often asked why other children had fathers and she didn’t. Catherine never hid the truth: “Your daddy was a wonderful man.” James had always been there, steady as the Thames, supportive, kind. She’d assumed he cared only for his career, but later understood—he’d been waiting for her alone.
James’s parents, Henry and Margaret, hadn’t embraced his choice to marry a woman with a child. They’d doubted they could love Emily as their own. Catherine never demanded they play grandparents, avoiding visits when she could. The thought of being an outsider in their home made her skin prickle.
“They won’t exactly be thrilled,” she murmured to James.
“Don’t be daft,” he waved her off. “They invited you themselves! Mum rang, insisted we spend the holidays.”
Catherine wavered. Dropping by for tea was one thing—spending all of Christmas with people who barely tolerated her was another. She longed to visit her foster mother, the woman from the children’s home in the next town over, who’d been her only family. She rang her often, sent parcels. But leaving James alone for their first Christmas together felt wrong. His work on a major project left no room for rest—he could be called away any moment. If his parents had truly invited them, she’d try. Gently, she prepared Emily, who eyed the new “Grandma and Grandad” with suspicion, sensing their chill.
“My old attic room’s yours,” James grinned at Emily. “Spent half my childhood there. I’ll show you all my treasures—proper adventure!”
Emily thawed a little. She adored James, thrilled to see her mother finally stepping into the light.
On the evening of the 29th, James showed them the snug cottage in the Cotswolds, spinning tales of his boyhood. Henry had already retired, while Margaret served tea and vanished upstairs. The tension radiating from Margaret was thick as clotted cream. Catherine ached to speak plainly—if she and Emily were such a burden, why invite them at all? Or had James lied to stitch the family together?
No, he’d never deceived her. He’d admitted his parents disapproved. Yet something gnawed at her.
The next morning, James was summoned to work. “Back in a tick!” he called, dashing out. Catherine stayed with Emily, dodging Margaret. But hunger drove her to the kitchen. “Can I help?” Emily offered. “No, love, read your book. I’ll manage,” Catherine replied, stepping into the hall.
She began assembling sandwiches when Margaret’s voice drifted from the parlour. The door stood ajar. Catherine froze mid-slice as the words slithered out: “No room for outsiders under my roof! I’ve said it before, Lydia, and I’ll say it again!”
Catherine’s heart twisted. Was that them? She couldn’t bear to hear more. Feed Emily, pack, leave. They’d return to their London flat and decide what came next. If James kept forcing this reconciliation, their marriage would crumble. Emily came first—she’d warned James of that from the start. For her daughter’s happiness, Catherine would walk away.
Or perhaps she’d confront Margaret. Demand nothing but basic respect, not love. Lay it all bare.
“Katie, are you sleepwalking?” Margaret appeared in the doorway. “Why aren’t you eating? I’ve made stew. Fetch Emily—lunch is ready.”
“Margaret,” Catherine steadied herself, “let’s not pretend we’re welcome here. I don’t keep James from you, but I won’t endure false smiles. Emily and I aren’t wanted.”
“Wherever did you get that idea?” Margaret’s brow furrowed. “Yes, we struggled with James’s choice. But we invited you ourselves.”
“Invited, of course,” Catherine nodded. She chose honesty—fleeing would be cowardice. “But your frostiness is plain as day. Henry hides in his study, you force niceties. Why invite us if you just told your sister there’s ‘no room for outsiders’?”
Margaret turned slowly, eyes wide. “You eavesdropped?” she whispered.
“No, I overheard that one line. Nothing more.”
“You should’ve listened longer, Katie,” Margaret sighed. “My sister Lydia’s rigid as an oak. Raised that way. I didn’t want James raising another man’s child—we feared the strain. But he chose you, and I’ve never seen him so happy. Four months is enough to change a heart. If our son loves you and Emily, we must too. Lydia disapproves. I invited her for Christmas, but she refused whenShe learned you’d be here, and that’s why I told her, ‘Emily isn’t an outsider—she’s our son’s child now,’ though I doubt it changed her mind.”