Chapter 8 - CHRISTMAS MORNING
We left my parents' house at 11:43 p.m.
Christmas dinner sat untouched on the table.
The turkey had gone cold.
Candles burned low.
Wrapping paper remained stacked beneath the tree.
Nobody cared.
James drove Emma and me to an urgent pediatric clinic that stayed open overnight.
The doctor examined her carefully.
No serious injury.
No concussion.
No lasting physical harm.
I should have felt relieved.
Instead, I cried in the parking lot.
James climbed into the back seat beside me.
Emma slept in her car seat between us.
I covered my face.
“I should never have let Lauren hold her.”
“Sarah.”
“I knew what she was like.”
“You didn't know she would hit a baby.”
“I knew she had a temper.”
“That doesn't make this your fault.”
I looked at him.
“I froze.”
“For maybe two seconds.”
“It felt longer.”
He reached across the car seat and held my hand.
“You protected Emma.”
“So did you.”
His eyes softened.
“I should've stopped Lauren before she touched her.”
“You couldn't have known either.”
For several moments, we sat quietly.
Snow had started falling.
Tiny flakes tapped against the windshield.
James looked at our daughter.
“I missed her first laugh.”
My heart tightened.
“I know.”
“I missed the first time she rolled over.”
“You were serving.”
“I know.”
His voice cracked.
“I spent eleven months thinking about coming home and holding her.”
He swallowed.
“And then I watch somebody hit her at her first Christmas.”
I squeezed his hand.
“James.”
“I don't care who Lauren is related to.”
He looked at me.
“She doesn't come near Emma again.”
I nodded.
“No argument.”
“Ever.”
“Ever.”
Christmas morning was quiet.
James made coffee.
I sat on the living room rug in pajamas while Emma attacked wrapping paper more enthusiastically than the toys underneath.
For twenty beautiful minutes, our world felt small and safe again.
Then my phone started ringing.
Mom.
I ignored it.
Again.
Ignored.
Dad.
Ignored.
Uncle Robert.
That one I answered.
“Hey.”
“Sarah.”
He sounded exhausted.
“Are you okay?”
“Emma's fine.”
“Thank God.”
I looked toward James.
He was helping Emma shake a stuffed reindeer.
“What happened after we left?”
Robert hesitated.
“Lauren and Derek fought.”
“Bad?”
“Very.”
“Did she leave?”
“Eventually.”
“And my parents?”
“Your dad locked himself in his office.”
My chest hurt.
“Mom?”
“Crying.”
I closed my eyes.
Robert continued.
“Sarah, I need to give you the trust documents.”
“I know.”
“But there's something I didn't tell you last night.”
Of course there was.
“What?”
“Your grandmother didn't only leave money.”
I sat straighter.
“What else?”
“She owned land.”
I frowned.
“Where?”
“Outside Asheville.”
I remembered.
Grandma had talked about a piece of mountain property she'd inherited from her father.
“I thought she sold that years ago.”
“She didn't.”
My pulse quickened.
“What does this have to do with me?”
Robert exhaled.
“She left half to you and half to Lauren.”
“That sounds fair.”
“It would've been.”
“Would've?”
“The property was sold last year.”
I froze.
“By whom?”
“Your parents.”
“But if Lauren and I owned it—”
“They couldn't legally sell it without both beneficiaries' consent.”
My voice dropped.
“I never signed anything.”
“I know.”
James looked over.
He could tell from my face that something was wrong.
“Robert…”
“Yes?”
“How much was the property worth?”
There was a pause.
Then my uncle said, “They sold it for eight hundred and forty thousand dollars.”
The coffee mug slipped from my hand.
It hit the rug.
James jumped.
“What happened?”
I barely heard him.
Because Uncle Robert wasn't finished.
May you like
“Sarah, according to the county record, your signature appears on the sale documents.”
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