The hospital room smelled like antiseptic and pine. I had taped a strip of cheap tinsel around the IV pole that morning, and it caught the fluorescent light in little green flickers. It was the only Christmas I could give him inside these walls.

Brayden was propped against two pillows, a size too big for his four-year-old body. His skin looked thin, like paper held up to a lamp. The bear in his lap was missing an eye. He had refused to let the nurses wash it.

"Mommy." His voice was soft. It always was now. "Can I tell you my Christmas wish?"

I leaned closer. My hand found his under the blanket. His fingers were cold. "Anything, baby."

He looked up at me. His eyes were huge in his small face, dark and serious, the way they got when he was working up to something important. "I want Daddy to come home. And put the star on top of the tree. Just one time. Like on TV."

I kept my face still. I had gotten good at that. I nodded, slow and sure, like this was the easiest thing in the world. "Okay. Okay, sweetheart. That's what we'll do."

He smiled. It was a small thing, barely there, but it lit up the whole ugly room.

I kissed his forehead and stepped into the corridor. I closed the door softly. Then I walked to the end of the hall, where the vending machine hummed, and I pulled out my phone.

Nikolai's name sat at the top of my recent calls. I hadn't spoken to him in six days.

It rang once. Twice. Three times. Four.

On the fifth ring he picked up. Somewhere behind him a woman laughed—bright, easy, the kind of laugh people have when nothing in their life is bleeding. I heard a girl's voice too, high and giggling. Indie. Then a spoon against a bowl.

"Erin." He sounded winded, as if I'd interrupted him mid-sentence. "What is it."

I pressed my forehead against the cold wall. "Brayden told me his Christmas wish today."

Silence. A pause where a father should have leaned in.

"He wants you to come home Christmas Eve. He wants you to put the star on the top of the tree. That's it. That's the whole wish."

I heard him exhale. It was the sigh of a man being asked to lift something too heavy for a Tuesday. "Erin. I've got a lot going on."

"He's four, Nikolai."

"I know how old he is."

Lilith laughed again in the background. Something clinked. A glass, maybe. A wine glass on a Wednesday afternoon.

"I'll try to swing by," he said. "Christmas Eve. I'll try."

"Try." I repeated the word so I could hear how it sounded out loud. It sounded like nothing.

"I have to go. Tell him I said hi." And the call ended. Just like that. No goodbye. Not even his son's name.

I stood there with the phone still against my ear, listening to the dial tone.

When I came back into the room, Brayden was watching the door. "Was that Daddy?"

"It was." I made my mouth curve. "He said he'll be there."

"On Christmas Eve?"

"On Christmas Eve."

He nodded, satisfied, and closed his eyes.

---

We went home two days later. The doctor let him out because there was nothing more they could do that we couldn't do in a living room. He didn't say it like that. He said it kinder. But I heard it.

The tree was small. Four feet, maybe. I had picked it up from a lot on Ninth Street where a man with red hands sold them for twenty dollars each. I set it by the window so Brayden could see it from the couch.

He wanted to help decorate. His arms shook after the third ornament. I pretended not to notice and slowed down to match his pace. We hung a glass snowman. A red bulb. A little wooden reindeer with a chipped nose that used to be his father's, from when Nikolai was a boy. I hesitated with that one. Then I hung it anyway, low, where Brayden could touch it.

He looked at the box on the mantle. The gold star. It was cardboard-boxed and dusty on the corners.

"We're not putting it up?" he asked.

"No, baby. That's Daddy's job. Remember?"

His face got quiet in that way I had started to hate. Like he was thinking harder than a four-year-old should think. Then he nodded. "Okay. We'll wait."

I set the box carefully in the center of the mantle. Like an offering. Like a summons.

---

Christmas Eve morning, he was already up when I came downstairs. He'd pulled on his red reindeer sweater by himself, backwards at first, and then I heard him in the bathroom fixing it. He'd dragged the ottoman to the front window and climbed up. His stuffed bear was tucked under one arm.

"Hi, Mommy." He didn't turn around. His eyes were on the driveway.

"Hi, my love." I brought him his pills in a tiny paper cup, and a mug of hot chocolate with three marshmallows because he liked odd numbers. I sat down on the ottoman next to him. My knee touched his.

"When do you think he'll come?" he asked.

"I don't know, baby. Sometime today."

"Morning or night?"

"I don't know."

He nodded. He took a careful sip of the hot chocolate. He kept his eyes on the driveway.

An hour passed. Then two. The sun climbed and then began to sag. A neighbor's car pulled in across the street and Brayden sat up straighter, then settled again when he saw it wasn't ours. He didn't say anything. He didn't complain. He just watched.

I watched him watch. And I felt something in my chest go very, very quiet. The kind of quiet that comes right before a house catches fire.

The clock on the mantle read three-fifteen when the garage door finally rumbled open. Brayden's head snapped up, his body straightening like a flower turning toward the sun. His stuffed bear fell to the floor, forgotten.

"He's here!" Brayden whispered, his voice small but bright. The brightness in his voice made my chest hurt.

I heard the car door slam. Then footsteps. Heavy, unhurried footsteps. They paused at the door. I imagined Nikolai standing there, keys in hand, looking at our house like it was a hotel he'd booked but wasn't sure he wanted to stay in.

The door opened. A blast of cold air rushed in, carrying the scent of coffee and something sweet—too sweet. Nikolai stepped inside, and I saw what he was carrying.

A bakery box. Crumpled at the corners, the string loose and trailing. He held it in one hand, his phone in the other, thumb already moving across the screen.

"Hey, buddy." He didn't look up from his phone as he said it. He set the box on the kitchen counter with a careless thud and finally glanced at Brayden, who was still perched on the ottoman by the window.

Brayden's face. I'll never forget it. It lit up like someone had struck a match inside his skull. "Daddy! You came!"

"Told you I would." Nikolai's tone was flat, distracted. He was already typing on his phone again.

I stood up. My legs felt unsteady. "Nikolai. Brayden's been waiting all day. Maybe you could—"

"I brought him something." He cut me off, nodding toward the counter. "Go on, Brayden. It's for you."

Brayden looked at me. I nodded. He climbed down from the ottoman, one hand on the wall for support. His legs wobbled as he walked to the counter. I watched him, my heart in my throat, as he reached for the box with trembling fingers.

He opened it.

Inside was a cake. A smash of pink frosting and sprinkles, squashed and smeared from being carried without care. I could see the imprint of someone's thumb on the corner. In the center, barely legible through the smudges, were the words "Happy Birthday Indie!"

"There you go, buddy." Nikolai still wasn't looking at him. He was smiling at his phone now, typing with both thumbs.

Brayden stood there, staring at the cake. His small chest rose and fell. I saw him swallow.

"It's not my birthday," he said softly.

Nikolai finally looked up from his phone. "Huh?" He glanced at the cake, then back at his son. "Oh. Yeah. It's from the party yesterday. There was some left over. I thought you might like it."

A party. Yesterday. While Brayden sat in a hospital bed, hooked to machines, waiting for his father to visit.

Brayden picked up a plastic fork from the counter. His hand shook so badly I thought he might drop it. But he didn't. He speared a chunk of pink frosting and cake, and he brought it to his lips.

He ate it.

I watched him force it down, his face pinched with the effort. His body was a war zone, and he was trying to make his father happy. Trying to be good. Trying to be worth loving.

It took three seconds for his body to reject it. He lurched forward, one hand braced against the counter, and vomited onto the kitchen floor. The sound was wet and terrible. He collapsed to his knees beside the mess, his small body heaving.

Nikolai looked up from his phone. Just looked. No movement toward his son. No rush to help. Just a flicker of annoyance, quickly masked.

I was already there, on the floor beside Brayden, my hands on his back. "It's okay, baby. It's okay."

"Sorry, Mommy," he whispered. "I tried. I tried to like it."

I gathered him into my arms, and he was so light, so fragile. I felt his heart racing against mine. I looked up at Nikolai, who was still standing there, still typing on his damn phone.

He finally pocketed it. "Look, I can't stay long. But I made a promise. I'll be back at midnight. We'll watch the fireworks together, okay? Just you and me. Like you wanted."

Brayden's head snapped up. His eyes were glassy with tears, but they shone with hope. "Really? You promise?"

"I promise." Nikolai crouched down, finally at eye level with his son. He held out his pinky finger. "Pinky promise. Midnight. The fireworks. I'll be here."

Brayden hooked his small finger around his father's. "Pinky promise," he echoed.

Nikolai stood up, already pulling out his keys. "See you at midnight, buddy. Don't stay up too late."

And then he was gone. The door closed. The car started. Brayden and I were alone again.

Brayden looked up at me, his face luminous with fragile hope. "He's coming back, Mommy. At midnight. He promised."

I nodded. I couldn't speak.

He picked up his stuffed bear from the floor and climbed back onto the ottoman. He settled in, his eyes fixed on the driveway, waiting. Fighting sleep with every breath.

Waiting for a father who was probably already at Lilith's house, laughing over the phone about the dying boy who ate cake vomit to make him happy.

At twelve-fifteen, Brayden was still awake.

He sat on the ottoman, wrapped in the red reindeer sweater, his stuffed bear clutched to his chest. His eyes were glassy and half-closed, but every time his head started to droop, he jerked it back up. Waiting. Still waiting.

'Baby,' I said softly. 'Maybe we should go to bed.'

'No.' His voice was a whisper, but it was firm. 'Daddy said midnight. He promised.'

I looked at the clock. Twelve-seventeen.

'Maybe he got held up. Maybe—'

'He promised, Mommy.' Brayden's chin trembled. 'Pinky promise.'

I stood up. Something cold and hard settled in my chest. 'Okay. Let's go find him.'

I wrapped him in a blanket over his sweater and lifted him into my arms. He was so light. Too light. I could feel every rib through the fabric.

The night air hit us like a slap. Cold and sharp, smelling of snow that hadn't fallen yet. I carried him down the driveway, past the neighbor's house with the inflatable Santa sagging on the lawn, past the mailbox with the crooked flag.

'Where is he?' Brayden's voice was muffled against my shoulder.

'I don't know, baby. But we'll find him.'

I walked three blocks. My arms ached. My breath came out in white clouds. Brayden's weight shifted against me, and I adjusted my grip, pulling him closer.

Then I heard it. Music. Laughter. The sharp crack of fireworks splitting the sky.

The town square.

I turned the corner, and there it was—a blaze of light and color. String lights looped between the lampposts, glowing gold and red and green. A crowd gathered around the gazebo, faces tilted up toward the sky. Fireworks bloomed overhead, green and violet and silver, raining sparks down like falling stars.

And there, in the center of it all, was Nikolai.

He stood beneath the gazebo, his head thrown back, laughing at something Lilith had just said. She was tucked under his arm, her face glowing in the light of the fireworks. And on his shoulders—perched high and safe and loved—was Indie. Her small hands reached up toward a paper lantern drifting overhead, her mouth open in a delighted shriek.

They looked perfect. Like a photograph. Like a family.

I stopped walking.

Brayden lifted his head from my shoulder. I felt his body go still. He saw them too.

'Daddy,' he whispered.

Nikolai didn't hear. He was laughing again, his hand on Indie's ankle to keep her steady. Lilith leaned into him, her head on his chest. Indie grabbed the lantern and waved it triumphantly, and Nikolai cheered.

Brayden didn't say anything else. He just looked. His small face was pale in the glow of the fireworks, his eyes enormous and unblinking.

Then he buried his face in my neck.

I stood there for one more second. Just one. Long enough to memorize the picture. Long enough to burn it into my brain so I would never, ever forget.

Then I turned around and walked home.

Brayden didn't speak the whole way back. He didn't cry. He just pressed his face into my shoulder and held on.

---

I carried him upstairs and laid him in his bed. His stuffed bear went under his arm. I pulled the blanket up to his chin and smoothed his hair back from his forehead.

'Mommy?' His voice was so small.

'Yeah, baby?'

'I'm tired.'

'I know. Go to sleep.'

He closed his eyes. His breathing evened out. I sat beside him until I was sure he was asleep, my hand resting on his chest, feeling the fragile rise and fall.

Then I went downstairs.

The tree stood by the window, dark except for the glow of the lights. The gold star sat on the mantle where I'd left it, still in its cardboard box.

I pulled the stepladder from the closet. The metal legs scraped against the floor. I climbed up, the star in my hand, and reached for the top of the tree.

It took three tries. My hands were shaking. But I got it. I pressed the star onto the highest branch and stepped back down.

The star caught the light from the street lamp outside. It glowed faintly, crooked and small.

I sat down on the floor beneath the tree. I pulled my knees to my chest and stared at it.

I didn't cry. I just sat there. The house was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of fireworks still crackling in the town square.

I sat there for a long time.

---

Two days later, the garage door opened at four in the afternoon.

I was in the kitchen, washing dishes. Brayden was asleep on the couch, his bear tucked under his chin. I heard the car door slam. Then another. Then a third.

I turned off the water.

The front door opened. Nikolai stepped inside first, keys jangling in his hand. Behind him came Lilith, a leather weekender bag slung over her shoulder. And behind her, Indie, dragging a pink suitcase with wheels that squeaked.

'Erin.' Nikolai didn't look at me. He set his keys on the counter. 'Lilith's apartment is being fumigated. They're going to stay in the guest room. A week, tops.'

Lilith swept past me, her heels clicking on the hardwood. She glanced at me—just a flicker of eye contact—and her mouth curved into something that might have been a smile. Polite. Pitying.

'Thank you so much for having us,' she said softly.

Indie didn't wait for permission. She bolted past me, shrieking with laughter, her sneakers leaving muddy tracks across the floor I'd just mopped that morning. She ran to the tree and grabbed at the ornaments, shaking the branches.

Nikolai picked up Lilith's suitcase and headed for the stairs. He didn't ask. He didn't even look at me.

I stood in the kitchen, my hands still wet, and watched them take over my home.

Brayden stirred on the couch. His eyes opened. He looked at Indie pulling ornaments off the tree. He looked at his father carrying another woman's suitcase up the stairs.

He didn't say anything.

He just closed his eyes again and held his bear a little tighter.