It was the Sunday before Christmas when I saw the note, crumpled, and spotted with what looked like red ink. I saw it in the waste bin after finishing up with the Christmas tree.
The bin was next to the tree, where I had placed it to dispose of the decoration waste after fetching it from the rear veranda, where it usually sat. It was a covered bin, and the black plastic liner was peeking out from under the lid. I had nearly completed the task—it had taken longer than usual since I had no help this year—and apart from clearing the waste, I was done. It was well after sunset—around eight o’clock, I’d say—and in keeping with the festive season, I was impatient to imbue the Christmas spirit.
Setting up the Christmas tree was both an obsession and a joy for me every year. I had been doing it since I was a child and had never let go of the tradition. It gave me a sense of festivity and happiness that perhaps the abstract thought of a Child—albeit a special Child—being born in Bethlehem could not. Through the tree—whether it was an old, tattered one or the brand-new one we bought last year—I rejoiced in the birth of Jesus. More than that, the Christmas tree brought the family together, inspiring sing-alongs or chit-chats during the week before and after Christmas. As we gathered around the tree and the crib beneath it, I felt a rare sense of peace with myself and others.
Since it was my obsession, it had always been up to me to set up the Christmas tree—both before and after I got married. My wife Evelyn (Evie, as I’ve called her for nearly 26 years) was supportive of this endeavour, though never particularly helpful. She preferred to observe from afar, keeping the house spotless in anticipation of Christmas. After many years, I had come to accept this arrangement, as our only son was always part of my Christmas capers.
Shannon was my aide-de-camp in various Christmas activities—from baking to decorating—despite his busy schedule of studies and socializing. Last year was especially memorable; we had a wonderful time working together, probably the best since he was a little boy dreaming of being the next Sachin Tendulkar. He had just graduated and was awaiting his first job, making him more available than usual.
With memories of yesteryears flooding my mind and a craving for the season’s spirit, I was in a state of flux. I knew I had to clean up before Evie wandered in from the kitchen. She was a stickler for neatness, and given her current state of mind, I knew she would harangue me for even the slightest mess. I gathered the debris—fallen leaves, cotton blobs, torn wrapping paper, pieces of twine, extra sand from the crib, broken decorations, and damaged statuettes—and rolled it all into an old newspaper. Heading toward the bin, I placed my foot on the pedal to open the lid.
As I was about to toss the garbage in, I saw it—a crumpled piece of paper, flecked with red, lying at the bottom of the otherwise empty bin. The red against the black liner stood out starkly, catching my attention immediately. Evie had just replaced the liner, and I knew the bin was supposed to be empty.
Curious, I picked it up with my left hand while dumping the garbage with my right. The bin lid snapped shut with a thud loud enough to echo into the kitchen. I carried the bin back to its usual spot on the veranda, but I kept the crumpled note in my pocket. The Christmas lights and guiding star had started twinkling, filling the air with festivity, but something about the note left me uneasy. Why, I couldn’t quite place.
“David!” Evie called as I passed the kitchen door.
“Yeah, coming,” I shouted back, eager to cover my apprehension. I shoved the note deeper into my pocket, but it felt like it was burning a hole in both my pocket and my mind. Why was I being so paranoid?
Evie was at the kitchen counter, cutting fish for the freezer. “Evelyn, what is it?” I called from a distance.
No response.
I stepped closer, irritated. I always used her full name when I was annoyed or interrupted. This time, it was because I had been about to inspect the note when she called me. I walked into the kitchen, feigning frustration, and snapped, “What do you want?”
Her lack of response made me even more anxious. She continued chopping fish, barely acknowledging my presence. I left in a huff, grabbing a bottle of vodka and a glass on my way to the veranda. I needed a drink to steady myself.
Settling down near the glowing Christmas tree, I poured myself a double. With each sip, my mind wandered back to the note. Why had it unsettled me so? Something about it seemed deliberate—intentional.
Finally, unable to resist any longer, I took the note out of my pocket. It was badly creased, and the writing wobbly, but I immediately recognized Evie’s distinctive handwriting. Using my phone’s flashlight, I began to read.
My dearest David,
I’m confused. Of late, we’ve grown apart emotionally and mentally, and I blame myself. I love you as much as I did when I married you, but I loved Shannon more. Perhaps too much. His sudden loss is something with which I cannot reconcile. I’ve tried—tried to take the advice of so many, even yours, though you may not believe it, given how much I’ve pushed you away or ignored you.
The emotional bond with Shannon was forged through struggle—his difficult conception, a painful pregnancy, and an arduous delivery. That bond was everything to me, and now it feels like it’s all gone. I know he’s not coming back, but my heart refuses to let him go. Is that an excuse to shy away from life? I don’t know, and honestly, I don’t care anymore. This void, this undeserved loss, eats away at my insides like a worm. No amount of medication—not sleeping pills, not anything—can fill it.
I paused. The vodka glass in my hand slipped and crashed to the floor. My breath caught, and my vision blurred with tears. I was an emotional man, a sucker for tragedy, but this wasn’t just a story—it was my life. Our life. And hers, now unravelling in her words.
My heart felt heavy, but I forced myself to continue reading.
David, I know you feel the loss just as deeply as I do, and I’ve seen how hard you’ve tried to be strong for me. I should have been strong for you. I failed. Maybe that’s what pushed you to drink more. Maybe my behaviour has made things worse. If so, I’m sorry.
Christmas is coming, and the thought of celebrating it without Shannon terrifies me. When you brought out the Christmas tree, I froze. I went numb. How can I share Christmas with you, just the two of us, in his absence? I can’t. I’m sorry, David. I can’t do this anymore.
Goodbye.
Love always,
Evie.
Her words hit me like a hammer. My chest felt tight, and my hands trembled as I dropped the note. My mind raced—her pain, my grief, our brokenness—all laid bare in black and white. The phrase “I can’t do this anymore” echoed in my mind, growing louder with each repetition.
The kitchen. Evie.
I stumbled to my feet and rushed toward the kitchen, knocking over the vodka bottle in my haste. It shattered, but I didn’t care. I needed to find her.
She was still at the sink, cleaning fish. Her movements were slow, mechanical. She hadn’t even looked up when I entered. The sight of her, so weighed down by sorrow, broke something inside me.
Without a word, I walked up behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist.
She froze, her hands motionless. The knife she held slipped into the sink with a soft clatter. I rested my chin on her shoulder and whispered, “Evie, I’m here. I love you. Let’s face this together.”
She didn’t respond. For a moment, I thought she would push me away as she had so many times before. But then, she turned, her tear-streaked face buried itself in my chest, and she let out a sob. It was raw and guttural, filled with months of suppressed pain. I held her tighter, my own tears streaming down my face.
“Merry Christmas,” I whispered. “Let’s go to Mass together. Let’s remember Shannon together. He wouldn’t want us to drift apart like this. He loved seeing us happy. Let’s honour him by finding our way back to each other.”
Her sobs quieted, and she looked up at me. Her eyes, red and swollen, searched mine as if trying to find hope where none existed. Then, unexpectedly, she smiled—a small, fragile smile—but it was enough.
“We’ll try,” she said softly, her voice breaking. “We’ll try for Shannon.”
I nodded, wiping her tears with my thumb. She reached up and did the same for me, her hands still damp from the fish. Her fingers lingered on my cheek, and for the first time in months, I felt warmth in her touch.
We stood there for what felt like an eternity, holding each other, crying for what we had lost, and silently vowing to rebuild what we still had. Above us, the Christmas lights twinkled, casting a warm glow over the kitchen. Somewhere, deep inside, I felt a flicker of hope.
Shannon had brought us back together, his love bridging the gap between our grief. I didn’t know what the future held for us, but in that moment, I knew we weren’t alone.
This Christmas, our family wouldn’t be complete. But it would be enough.
For Shannon. For us.
About the Author:
Brian is Director, Spearhead Media Pvt Ltd and Chairman ISTD, M’luru/Udupi Chapter. He is also a content creator, columnist, editor, experienced business and HR manager, trainer, facilitator, and talk show host.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.