Chapter 8 - The Siege of New Year’s Eve
By the time New Year’s Eve arrived, six days had passed since the Christmas disaster.
During those six days, my mother’s panic had escalated from polite letters to a full-court press. Having realized that her initial letter had yielded total silence from my end, she began using every weapon in her arsenal to force a response.
First came the flowers. A massive arrangement of white lilies and pink roses arrived at my front door on Wednesday, accompanied by a card that read: Thinking of my girls. Let’s talk soon. Love, Mom. I gave the flowers to our elderly neighbor down the street.
Then came my father.
On Thursday afternoon, while Evan was at work, my father’s car pulled up to the house. It was rare for my father to do anything without my mother’s direct command, and seeing him walk up the driveway alone felt surreal.
I opened the door, holding Lily on my hip.
"Dad," I said quietly.
"Maya," he sighed, looking down at the porch floor. He looked tired. The lines around his eyes seemed deeper, and he looked smaller in his heavy winter coat. "Can I come in for ten minutes?"
I hesitated, then stepped aside. "Sure."
He walked into the warm kitchen, taking off his hat and looking at Lily with a soft, wistful smile. "Hi there, sweetie," he whispered, reaching out a finger for her to grab. Lily grasped it tightly, grinning up at him.
"She’s growing fast, Maya," Dad said gently.
"She is, Dad. She stood up on her own three days ago."
My father’s eyes blinked rapidly, a flash of sadness crossing his face. "That’s... that’s wonderful." He cleared his throat, leaning against the counter. "Maya, your mother is a mess. She hasn't slept in almost a week. She’s not eating. She just paces around the house looking at old photo albums of you when you were a baby."
"Dad," I said, stopping him before he could continue. "Did you come here to tell me she’s sorry, or did you come here because she sent you to make your life easier at home?"
My father froze. He looked at me, his mouth opening slightly, but no words came out.
"She’s making your life miserable, isn't she?" I asked, my voice filled with gentle pity. "Because she can't control me anymore, she’s taking her anxiety out on you."
"Maya, she’s your mother," my father pleaded quietly. "She’s always been... difficult. You know how she is. She has a sharp mouth, but she loves you. Can't you just call her? Just let her come over for thirty minutes on New Year’s Eve? Just to give her some peace?"
"What about my peace, Dad?" I asked sharply. "What about Lily’s peace? Why is it always my job to swallow her insults so that she can have peace?"
My father looked down at his boots, unable to answer.
"When she called my daughter defective, you sat right there at the head of the table and said nothing," I continued, the hurt finally bleeding into my voice. "You let her talk to me like that my whole life, Dad. And I forgave you for not protecting me. But I will not let you ask me to sacrifice my daughter to keep the peace in your house."
My father took a deep, shuddering breath. He looked up at me, his eyes shiny with unshed tears. He reached out and gently touched my shoulder.
"You're stronger than I ever was, Maya," he whispered softly. "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry."
He kissed Lily on the forehead, put his hat back on, and walked out the door without another word.
When New Year’s Eve arrived that night, the city outside was filled with distant fireworks and the sound of popping champagne corks. Evan and I sat on the living room floor, sharing a pizza and watching the ball drop on television while Lily slept peacefully upstairs.
At precisely 11:59 PM, my phone screen lit up on the coffee table.
A voicemail notification appeared.
My mother had called from my father’s phone—the only number I hadn't blocked.
I unlocked the screen and pressed play on the speakerphone.
My mother’s voice rang out into the quiet room. She sounded entirely stripped of her usual poise. Her voice was raw, breathless, and choked with hysterical sobs.
"Maya... please... it’s almost midnight. It’s New Year’s. Please don't do this. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry for what I said. I will never talk about her weight again. I will never say another word about her size. I’ll do whatever you want! Just please... don't take my granddaughter away from me. Please call me... please..."
The beep sounded, signaling the end of the recording.
Evan looked at me in the quiet room as the TV broadcast showed crowds cheering in Times Square, confetti raining down over thousands of happy faces.
"Happy New Year," Evan said softly.
May you like
I looked at the phone, then over toward the stairs leading up to my daughter’s nursery.
"Happy New Year," I whispered.
