“Yes.”
“Grandma.”
She exhaled.
“What does your father say?”
“He’s working.”
“Has he seen?”
“No.”
“Tell him.”
“I don't want to create drama.”
Grandma made a sound.
One I knew.
“Child.”
“What?”
“You are thirteen.”
“It is not your job to prevent adults from experiencing consequences of their own behavior.”
I smiled.
“That sounded very principal.”
“I worked hard on it.”
“It's just a tree.”
“No.”
Grandma said.
“It is never just the object when someone is asking you to erase something sentimental because it inconveniences them.”
That stayed with me.
Thursday afternoon, things got worse.
Renee was assembling a gingerbread house on the kitchen island.
Not a small one.
An enormous elaborate structure for a church holiday competition.
She had spent four evenings on it.
Sugar-glass windows.
Icing shingles.
Tiny candy wreaths.
A miniature church bell.
She was proud of it.
She should have been.
It was impressive.
I came downstairs carrying one ornament.
The blue heart.
I had kept it in my room because the paint was fragile.
Renee saw it.
“What is that?”
“My favorite.”
I walked toward old tree.
She put down the icing bag.
“Amara.”
I turned.
“Can we not add anything else?”
I stared.
“It’s one ornament.”
“The tree is already leaning.”
“It always leans.”
“Exactly.”
“Then I'll put it high.”
“Please.”
Her voice tightened.
“I have spent days making this room beautiful.”
Something inside me hardened.
“You mean your tree beautiful.”
“Our home.”
“My mom’s ornaments are part of our home.”
Renee’s eyes flashed.
“You keep saying ‘my mom’ every time I try to do something here.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
She seemed to hear herself.
Then tried to adjust.
“I don't mean it that way.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No.”
“You said it.”
“I’m asking you to understand how difficult it is to create traditions when everything has to stay exactly how your mother left it.”
“The tree only comes out at Christmas.”
“That's not the point.”
“What is?”
She looked toward hallway.
Dad’s work jacket usually hung there.
Empty.
Then she lowered her voice.