The Weight of Choice
I nudged her away from me, suddenly irritated by her touch, by the scotch on her breath, and even the scent of lavender on her neck. I didn’t want to cradle her talk about ghost slaps, dead mothers, and the **right thing to do**.“Just go,” I said. “If you want to leave me, just do it. Don’t try to make it supernatural. You are the one making this choice, Celestial. You.” I realized then that **personal accountability** is often the hardest part of a **breakup**.“You know what I mean, Dre. We’ve been lucky. We were born lucky. Roy’s starting from scratch. Less than scratch. You saw him trying to kill himself up under that tree. He wanted to crack his own skull.”“Actually, I was the one he was trying to kill.”“Dre,” she said. “You and me, we are just heartbroken. That’s it. Only heartbroken.”“Maybe that’s it for you,” I said, wondering if our **relationship compatibility** had finally hit its limit.“Baby,” she said. “Can’t you see? Whatever I do to you, I am doing to myself.”“Then don’t do it. You don’t have to.”She shook her head and said, “You didn’t see him. If you had seen him, I know you would agree with everything I’m saying.”“I need you, Celestial,” I whispered. “All my life.” In that moment, I understood why people search for **how to save a marriage** or **finding closure** when the path forward is blurred.She shifted so that we were touching again. When she closed her eyes, I felt the tickle of her lashes.“I have to do this,” she said.Celestial owed me nothing. A few months ago, this was the beauty of what we had: **unconditional love**, no debts, and no trespasses. She said that love can change its shape, but for me at least, this is a lie. I kept my arms around her, my body aching and cramped, desperately seeking **emotional healing**. I held her until my muscles failed, because I knew that the moment I released her, she would be gone, forcing me to **rewrite my life story** without her.
Christmas Morning: A Story of Redemption
I woke up at a quarter past eleven and the clean air smelled like trees. Except for her hair, Celestial was my Georgia girl again. I stood up and she embraced me, spreading her fingers across my shoulders. Her skin was warm like a cup of cocoa, reminding me of the importance of **physical intimacy** in a **long-term relationship**.“Merry Christmas, baby,” I said, just like Otis Redding.“Merry Christmas,” she replied with a smile.“With everything, I almost forgot about the holidays,” I said, wishing, too late, that I had used some of Olive’s money to buy Celestial a **perfect luxury gift**—perhaps a **diamond necklace** or a big thing in a small package.“Don’t be silly,” she said. “You’re safe. In one piece.”She knew this wasn’t completely true. I was embarrassed remembering Christmas Eve—not the violence, but my desperate confessions as she kept me awake to save my life. In the world of **trauma recovery**, those late-night talks are everything. When I told her about the pear, she soothed me with a hymn, the same one she sang for Olive. I had forgotten the power of her voice, the way she scuffed you in order to buff you smooth.It made me think of Davina and the **cost of heartbreak**. What would Celestial think if she knew how I had readied myself for this homecoming by breaking a gentle woman’s heart? It costs you to hurt people; **emotional intelligence** teaches us that every action has a price. But I supposed that Celestial knew that already.“You know what I want for Christmas?” I said. “My two front teeth. Really just that bottom one.”She wiggled away and went to the dresser wearing a white slip that made her seem like a virgin. The first time I saw her wear white was our **wedding day**, and the last time had been the night when the door was kicked open—a moment that changed our lives and our **marriage stability** forever.On her dresser rested a jewelry case that was a replica of the dresser itself. She opened it and retrieved a little box. She handed it to me; I shook it and was rewarded with the hard rattle of a fragment of lost bone.“Remember that night? You had me out here trying to be Superman.”“You rose to the occasion,” she said. “More than rose—soared.”“I hope this doesn’t come off wrong. I know you’re an **independent woman** with your own **financial freedom**. You got your own money and your daddy’s money, too. But I liked being able to save you. Chasing that kid down the street, I was a hero. Even when he kicked my tooth right out of my head.”
A Fresh Start: Navigating Forgiveness and Tradition
“He could have killed you,” she said. “I didn’t think about that until you caught up with him.”“He could have, but he didn’t. No sense worrying about things that didn’t happen.” I took her hand, focusing on **positive mindset** and **stress management**. “I’m not even worried about what did happen. This is a fresh day. A **fresh start**.”We cooked a late breakfast in our nightclothes, a moment of **intimate home life**. I volunteered to make salmon croquettes. She put herself in charge of grits. As she stirred the pan, a **ruby ring** shimmered dark and hot on her right hand—a piece of **fine jewelry** that caught the morning light.The phone rang and Celestial answered it “Happy Holidays” like it was the name of a business. From her side, I could tell she was talking to her parents. Mr. and Mrs. Davenport, eccentric genius daddy and schoolteacher mama, safe in their **luxury real estate**—that haunted house. I missed them, all that **financial security** and comfort. I held out my hand, hoping she would pass me the phone, but she shook her head, mouthing, *Shhh*.“Are we going over there for dinner?” I asked after she hung up.“We’re kind of not getting along,” she said, hinting at the **family dynamics** and **conflict resolution** we still faced. “Besides, I’m not ready to bring the world into this yet.”“Christmas is my favorite holiday,” I said, remembering. “Ever since I had teeth, Big Roy would slice up an apple and we’d share it. When he was growing up, all he would get under the tree was the one apple. He didn’t know other kids were getting **toy cars**, school clothes, and stuff. He was excited for what he got—a piece of fruit all to himself.”“You never told me that,” said Celestial.“I guess I didn’t want you feeling sorry for us, because really, it’s one of my happiest memories. After we got married, I slipped down here on Christmas morning to have my apple.”She looked the way you do when you figure something out, a breakthrough in **emotional intelligence**. “You could have told me. I’m not how you think I am.”“Georgia,” I said. “I know that now. Don’t be upset. All that was so long ago. I made mistakes. You made mistakes. It’s all right. Nobody is holding anything against anyone.” We were practicing **forgiveness in marriage**, the ultimate **relationship goal**.Seeming to think it over, she pulled open the oven, taking out a pan of toast cooked the way Olive used to make it, soft on the bottom, crispy on the top except for five dots of butter. She held the bread out for my inspection. Her face said, *I’m trying. I am trying so hard.*
The Bitter Taste of Truth: A Lesson in Emotional Intelligence
I rummaged in the fridge until I found a big red teacher-apple. The knife I pulled from the block was small but sharp. I cut away a thick slice and handed it to her before carving one for myself. “Merry Christmas.”She held the fruit aloft. “Cheers. Bon appétit.”That was the first moment when it felt right, when true **relationship reconciliation** seemed possible. The taste of the apple, sweet chased by a twinge of tart, reminded me of Big Roy. I pictured him all alone on this holiday, highlighting the need for **senior companion care** during the festive season. Wickliffe would be off with his daughter and grands, and Big Roy didn’t much truck with anybody else.“Celestial,” I said. “I know I said we weren’t going to get stuck in the past. But I have one more thing I need to talk about.”Chewing her apple, she nodded, but her eyes were afraid, reflecting a deep need for **anxiety management**.“I’m not trying to fight,” I said. “I swear I’m not. This isn’t about Andre, and it’s not about **family planning** or having kids. It’s about my mother.”She nodded and covered my hand with her own, sticky with apple juice.I took a breath. “Celestial, Big Roy told me that you told Olive about Walter. He said it killed her. Actually killed her. He said she was getting better, but when you told her about Walter, she gave up. She couldn’t see the point anymore.” This level of **emotional trauma** is a heavy burden to carry in any marriage.“No,” she said as I pulled my hands from hers. “No, no, no. It wasn’t like that.”“Then what was it like?” I promised her that I wasn’t mad, but maybe I was. The apple in my mouth tasted like dirt.“I did go see her at the end. She wasn’t dying soft, Roy. It was bad. The **hospice nurse** tried, but Olive wouldn’t take the **pain management** medicine because she thought it would kill her faster, and she was trying to live for you. When I went there, her lungs were so full of cancer that I could hear the clogging in her chest. She was fighting it hard, but she couldn’t win; her fingers were tinted blue. I asked your father to leave the room, and I told her everything.”“Why? How could you do that? She didn’t last another day.” Olive died alone while Big Roy was off to the store. I missed her, he told me. “My mama didn’t deserve that.”“No.” She shook her head, an example of **conflict resolution** in a crisis. “You can blame me for a lot but not for that. When I told her, she shook her head, looked up at the ceiling, and said, ‘God sure is funny. Sending Othaniel to the rescue.’ Your daddy thinks she gave up, but that’s not what it was.”
Final Truths: Forgiveness and Moving On
She knew you weren’t by yourself; she could finally let go.” Celestial crossed her arms over her chest like she was holding herself together—a clear sign of the **anxiety and stress** that comes with being a caregiver. “I know you said not to. But if you had been there…”And now I held myself with the same posture, arms crossed and gripping my sides. “It wasn’t my fault that I wasn’t there. I would have been there if they had let me.” We sat at that table, neither able to comfort the other, caught in a cycle of **grief and loss**, her remembering being a bystander to my mother’s suffering and me suffering because I was denied the experience.She composed herself first, practicing **mindfulness** as she took the apple from the table and sliced off another piece for herself and one for me. “Eat,” she said.Night followed day, as it always does, and each night promised a day soon to come. This is something I took comfort in these last bad years. While Celestial showered, I called Big Roy, and I could hear the melancholy in the way he spoke our mutual name—a reminder of the importance of **senior mental health** and staying connected.“You okay, Daddy?”“Yes, Roy. I’m okay. Got a little indigestion. Sister Franklin brought me a plate, but I ate too much of it, too fast maybe. She’s not a cook like your mama but not half-bad.”“It’s okay to enjoy it, Daddy. Go ahead and like her.” I wanted him to find **companionship for seniors** so he wouldn’t be alone.He laughed, but he didn’t sound like himself. “You trying to marry me off so you don’t have to come home and take care of me?”“I want you to be happy.”“You’re free, son. That makes me happy enough for the rest of my days.”Next, I rang Davina as the steam from Celestial’s shower wafted into the bedroom, a moment of **secret communication** that felt like a betrayal. “Merry Christmas,” I said to her. In the background was music and laughing. “Is this a bad time?”She hesitated, then said, “Let me take the phone outside.” As I waited, I imagined her with a tuft of tinsel glinting in her hair, wondering about our **relationship compatibility**. When she came back, I tried to sound casual.“I just want to say Merry Christmas.” I held the phone with both hands, feeling the weight of **infidelity and guilt**.“Roy Hamilton, I have one question for you. You ready? Here it is: something or nothing. This could be the eggnog talking, but I need to know. What happened with us, was it **true love** or just a temporary fix? Was it something or nothing?”