Chapter Text
DECEMBER 22, 1989 — MORNING
The Mary Janes pinched. Lennon wiggled her toes, searching for a spot that didn't hurt. The patent leather stayed stiff, the strap cutting across her foot with every shift.
Gran said they were practical. Gran said they'd last the whole school year if Lennon took care of them properly.
Lennon hated them.
She sat at her desk in Mrs. Davis's first-grade classroom and looked down at the pink sweater Gran had picked that morning. White Peter Pan collar, little pearl buttons. Pink because that's what girls wore. Pink because Gran said so.
The sweater made her feel itchy even though it was soft.
Around her the classroom buzzed with Christmas excitement. The heater kicked on with a rattle and the paper snowflakes Mrs. Davis had taped to the windows spun lazy circles. Someone's mama had brought store-bought cookies—the kind with red and green sprinkles that looked like they'd taste more like frosting than cookie.
"—my daddy's gettin' me a Nintendo, he promised—"
"—we got our tree yesterday and it's so tall it touches the ceiling—"
"—wrote Santa three whole letters about the Barbie Dream House so he knows I really really want it—"
Lennon pulled her Little Mermaid backpack onto her lap. She'd wanted the My Little Pony one at Kmart, but Gran said the mermaid was more practical. More room for books. The ponies were frivolous.
Her pencil case had Disney princesses on it. She'd wanted the Transformers one—the one with Optimus Prime that lit up when you opened it—but Gran's mouth had gone thin. "That's for boys, Lennon Rose."
Inside her lunch bag: peanut butter sandwich on wheat bread, apple slices going brown in their baggie, and three oatmeal raisin cookies wrapped in wax paper. Gran had made them last night, measuring everything precise, teaching Lennon how to cream butter and sugar while lecturing about following recipes exactly.
"Lennon?" Ashley leaned over from the next desk. Her Punky Brewster shirt was bright against her tan skin, side ponytail bouncing with a rainbow scrunchie. "You excited for Christmas?"
Lennon's stomach flipped. She nodded fast. "Uh huh."
"What'd you ask Santa for?"
Heat crawled up Lennon's neck. Her hands twisted together under her desk where Ashley couldn't see. "Um. Stuffed animals. And maybe a Lite Brite."
The answers from the list Gran had helped her write last week at the kitchen table. Good things. Appropriate things. Things young ladies asked for.
Ashley's whole face lit up, the gap where her two front teeth used to be making her smile look funny and friendly. "That's so cool! My mama already got me the Lite Brite—I saw her hide it in her closet. We can make pictures together when you get yours!"
"Yeah." Lennon tried to smile back. Something in her chest felt tight.
Mrs. Davis clapped her hands sharp. "Alright, class! Time to settle down for our Christmas party!"
The room exploded. Chairs scraped, kids squealing, everyone running toward the back tables. Lennon followed slower, her Mary Janes clicking against the linoleum.
The snack table had everything spread out like a feast: chips in big bowls, juice boxes sweating, Christmas napkins with Santa's face. Ashley's mama had brought cupcakes with little snowmen made of frosting. Brandon's mama had brought brownies that looked fudgy and perfect.
Lennon set a container of cookies from her backpack on the table. The oatmeal raisin ones Gran had spent an hour making, talking the whole time about not wasting ingredients.
"Ew." Brandon's nose wrinkled. "Raisin cookies? Those're disgusting."
Lennon's face went hot. She grabbed the cookies and shoved them back in the bag. "They're not that bad."
"Yes they are. Raisins look like dead bugs."
"My mama says raisins are healthy," Ashley said, already reaching for a brownie.
"Don't mean they taste good." Brandon grabbed three cupcakes and took off running.
Lennon picked up one of Ashley's mama's cupcakes. The frosting was bright blue—the fake kind Gran would say was full of artificial colors and nothing nutritious. It tasted exactly like those chemicals when she bit into it, sweet and fake and perfect. Way better than oatmeal raisin cookies that looked like bugs.
She ate it slow, letting the frosting melt on her tongue, watching the other kids run around showing off invisible presents they'd already decided Santa was bringing. Tommy reciting his whole list to anyone who'd listen. Jennifer telling girls about the Barbie Dream House with the working elevator.
When Ashley reached for a second brownie instead of asking about the cookies again, something in Lennon's stomach dropped.
After snacks Mrs. Davis had everyone sit on the carpet in a circle. She pulled out construction paper in every color and dumped the crayon box in the middle. The record player crackled to life—Bing Crosby singing about white Christmases even though it barely ever snowed in Georgia.
"Okay, class!" Mrs. Davis's Christmas tree earrings swung when she moved her head. "We're going to make wish lists for Santa! Draw pictures of what you want, or write the words if you know how. Then we'll hang them on our class tree!"
Lennon's heart kicked hard against her ribs.
A list.
A new list.
This one Gran wouldn't see. This one was just for Santa—magic Santa who knew everything, who could see into your heart even if you couldn't say it out loud.
She could write the truth this time.
Mrs. Davis handed out paper. Lennon took a green piece even though her favorite color was purple. All the purple was gone. She grabbed a pencil from the pile and stuck the eraser end in her mouth.
"Lennon Rose." Mrs. Davis's voice cut sharp. "We do not put pencils in our mouths. That is unsanitary."
Lennon yanked the pencil out, her face burning. "Sorry, ma'am."
"Hands in your lap until you're ready to write properly."
"Yes, ma'am." She folded her hands together—left over right, resting in her lap—and held herself frozen until Mrs. Davis looked away.
Then, slow and careful, she picked up the pencil again.
Her hand moved across the paper. Each letter took forever because she had to think about it. Sometimes letters flipped backwards in her head and came out wrong.
Lite Brite
Safe. It was on Gran's list too, and she really did want one. The commercials made it look like magic—little colored pegs that glowed in the dark.
Her leg started bouncing, her foot tapping against the carpet.
"Lennon. Sit still, please."
"Sorry, ma'am." She pressed her foot flat against the floor even though it wanted to move so bad.
Appaloosa
She stared at the word. She'd learned how to spell it because she'd asked Gran three times if she could have a horse. A real horse. They had the barn—big enough, room enough. Pops could teach her.
But Gran had said no all three times. Horses were expensive. Dangerous. Young ladies didn't need horses, they needed to focus on their studies and learning to be proper.
Lennon pressed her pencil down so hard the paper tore when she crossed out Appaloosa. Her throat felt tight.
My Little Pony stuffed animal
Better. Safer. Gran's list had said "stuffed animals" so a pony was probably okay. Purple would be best. Maybe Twilight Sparkle.
Now for the real things. The secret things Gran had said no to.
Transformers action figure
Her heart pounded writing it. She made the letters small, like maybe if they were small enough they wouldn't count as much. But Santa would know. Santa would understand that Optimus Prime was the coolest thing in the world—a truck that turned into a robot.
Her tongue stuck out while she worked. The pencil moved faster:
yellow and black LA Gear sneakers with the lights
Purple backpack
Skip-It
Glow Worm
Each thing Gran had said no to. Each thing she'd wanted but couldn't ask for at home.
Around her the other kids were drawing and coloring. Ashley making a huge yellow blob that was probably Barbie's hair. Tommy writing N-I-N-T-E-N-D-O in letters that took up half his paper. Brandon just scribbling red crayon everywhere.
Lennon looked down at her list. Seven things already. That was a lot. Maybe too many?
But then she thought about the list Gran had made her write. Four things. Four boring things that made Gran happy but made Lennon's chest feel hollow.
This list was the truth.
Her pencil hovered over the paper.
One more thing. The most important thing. The thing that made her stomach hurt to even think about.
She looked around the circle. Mrs. Davis was helping Ashley spell "Barbie." Brandon was showing Tommy his red mess. Nobody was watching.
She bent over her paper until her nose almost touched it, making herself as small as possible. Her very best handwriting—the kind that took forever because she had to think about each letter.
Meet my mama's family
The words sat there on the green paper. Real. True. The thing she wanted most in the whole world.
She didn't know her mama's family. Didn't know if she had a grandma and granddaddy on that side, or aunts and uncles, or cousins her age who maybe looked like her. All she knew was her mama's name—Rachel. And that Rachel had died the day Lennon was born. And that Gran's face went hard as stone any time Pops tried to talk about her.
Once Lennon had asked if her mama had a family. Gran's mouth had gone thin and she'd said "That is not appropriate to discuss, Lennon Rose" in that voice that meant the conversation was over. Then she'd sent Lennon to her room for being disrespectful.
But maybe Santa could help. Maybe Santa could make it happen somehow.
She drew a star at the top of the paper, coloring it in with yellow crayon until it was bright and perfect. Then she looked at the whole list—eight things, eight true things, her real Christmas wishes.
Her stomach fluttered.
She took the paper up to Mrs. Davis's desk, holding it careful so the crayon wouldn't smudge.
"All done, sweetie?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Mrs. Davis took the paper. Her eyes moved down the page. When she got to the bottom, something changed in her face. It went soft and sad and something else Lennon couldn't figure out—like when Pops looked at her sometimes when he thought she wasn't paying attention.
"Oh, Lennon." Mrs. Davis's voice dropped to almost a whisper. "This is a lovely list."
Pride swelled warm in Lennon's chest. "Thank you, ma'am."
Mrs. Davis looked at her for a long moment, like she was trying to see inside Lennon's head. Then she smiled, but it wasn't her regular smile. This one looked like it hurt. "Why don't you go play with the blocks while I collect everyone else's lists?"
"Yes, ma'am." Lennon paused. "When're you gonna hang 'em on the tree?"
"Soon, honey. Go on now."
Lennon went to the blocks in the corner and started building a tower, but her eyes kept sliding toward the Christmas tree in the window. Waiting to see her list hanging there with all the others. Waiting to see that yellow star catching the light.
The afternoon dragged slow. Mrs. Davis read them the story about Rudolph. They sang Jingle Bells and Frosty the Snowman. A few kids showed their ornaments.
But the lists never went up on the tree.
Lennon kept looking, kept waiting. Maybe tomorrow. Yeah, that made sense. Tomorrow when they came back to school, all the lists would be hanging there, bright and colorful. And Santa would see them somehow—through magic, probably.
When the final bell rang, she grabbed her backpack and lunchbox and lined up with everyone else for the buses. Walking out, she felt lighter than she had in weeks. The Mary Janes still pinched but she barely noticed.
She had a real list now. Her real list. The one that told the truth.
Everything was going to be okay.
The bus was loud with kids screaming about Christmas and what Santa was bringing. Lennon pressed her forehead against the cold window, watching dead tobacco fields slide past, stubble poking up through red Georgia clay.
Inside her chest, everything felt bright and fizzy.
She had a real list now. A true list. Santa was going to see it and bring her everything. Even the last thing. The impossible thing.
Maybe especially the impossible thing.
The bus stopped at her road and she climbed down the steps, her backpack bouncing against her shoulders. The long driveway stretched ahead—past the tobacco fields, past the vegetable garden with its winter-brown stalks, past the chicken coop where the hens made soft noises, past the barn.
The farmhouse sat white and perfect at the end, smoke curling from the chimney. Warm yellow light glowed in the windows against the gray afternoon.
She climbed the porch steps, Mary Janes making hollow sounds on the wood, and pushed open the front door.
"I'm home!"
"Wipe your feet." Gran's voice floated from the kitchen, sharp and clear. "And hang up your backpack properly."
"Yes, ma'am."
Lennon wiped her feet on the mat—three passes, getting all the dirt—then hung her backpack on its hook and lined up her Mary Janes beneath it, toes pointing toward the wall just how Gran liked.
The house smelled like chicken roasting and biscuits baking. Her stomach growled loud enough that she pressed her hand against it.
In the kitchen, Gran stood at the stove in her apron—white with tiny blue flowers, tied perfect at the waist. Every hair was in place, sprayed stiff.
Pops sat at his usual spot. He'd washed up from the fields—hands clean, face clean, exhaustion written in every line around his eyes.
"How was school, baby girl?"
His voice was gentle. Warm. Something in Lennon's chest unclenched.
"Good, Pops. We had a Christmas party."
"That right? What'd you do?"
"Made wish lists for Santa. And ate cupcakes. And Mrs. Davis read us the story about Rudolph with the red nose."
"Sounds real nice." He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
"Go wash your hands," Gran said without turning around. "Then set the table."
"Yes, ma'am."
The bathroom soap smelled like lemons. Lennon scrubbed her hands under water that ran cold, then hot, then found the right temperature. She dried them on the towel, looked at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were pink from the cold bus ride. Her hair stuck up funny where her coat hood had rubbed it.
She looked happy.
She felt happy.
When she came back, Gran had plates stacked on the counter.
"Three plates, three forks, three knives, three glasses."
"Yes, ma'am."
Lennon took them one at a time, setting the table the way she'd been taught since she was old enough to reach: plate in the center, fork to the left, knife to the right with the blade facing in, glass at the top right corner. Her hands knew the pattern without thinking.
Gran watched while she worked, checking to make sure everything was perfect.
"Now go get your things from school. I need to check your folder."
The bright feeling flickered, but just for a second.
Gran always checked her school things. Every day. Made sure Lennon was doing well, being good, being excellent like Wilde women were supposed to be.
"Yes, ma'am."
She went to the front door, grabbed her backpack, brought it back to the kitchen table. Unzipped it.
The red folder where Mrs. Davis put all the papers. Lennon handed it to Gran.
Gran took it, sat down, opened it with slow deliberate movements. Everything precise. Everything controlled.
Lennon stood with her hands twisted together behind her back, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
Gran pulled out the math worksheet first. The big red 88 at the top.
Lennon had been so proud of that 88.
But Gran's mouth went thin.
"An eighty-eight."
Lennon's stomach dropped. "I tried real hard, Gran—"
"Patricia." Pops's coffee cup clinked when he set it down. His voice was soft, careful. "It's a B. You know she mixes up numbers sometimes—sees a six and reads it as a nine. We've been working on it. Last test was a seventy-five. This is real improvement."
Gran's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping under the skin. "A B is mediocre, Vernon."
Pops opened his mouth like he might say something else. Then he closed it, picked up his coffee, looked down into it.
Lennon's face burned. She stared at her socks.
Gran went back to the folder. Pulled out the spelling worksheet—all marked correct in green pen. The reading log. The permission slip for next month's field trip.
Each paper got set aside with precise movements, lined up neat and even.
Then Gran's hand went back into the backpack. Checking for anything else. Anything forgotten.
Her fingers touched paper.
Gran pulled it out.
Green construction paper.
Yellow star.
Everything in Lennon went cold.
No.
The word screamed in her head but no sound came out. That wasn't supposed to be there. That was supposed to be at school on the tree for Santa.
Not here.
Not in Gran's hands.
Gran unfolded the paper. Her face was stone—carved marble, unmoving.
But something behind her eyes went hard. Cold. Like winter.
The kitchen got very quiet. Lennon couldn't breathe. Her chest was too tight, like someone had wrapped rope around her ribs. Her heart hammered so loud she could hear it in her ears, drowning out everything else.
Gran's eyes moved down the page.
Her jaw tightened.
Her mouth went thinner.
Thinner.
Then Gran went perfectly still.
The clock ticked on the wall. The chicken bubbled in its roasting pan. The refrigerator hummed. Lennon's breathing came too fast.
Pops was staring at Gran's face, his own face going careful. Worried.
"Patricia—"
Gran set the paper down on the table. Slow. Precise. Like handling something that might shatter.
She folded her hands in her lap.
When she looked up at Lennon, her eyes were ice.
"Sit down."
Lennon's legs shook but she pulled out the chair and sat. Her feet dangled, not quite touching the floor.
Gran didn't speak right away. Just looked at Lennon. Looked and looked until Lennon wanted to crawl out of her skin.
"We made a list together last week. Do you remember?"
Lennon's throat was too tight. She nodded.
"And what was on that list?"
"Lite Brite." Her voice came out scratchy. "Stuffed animals. Colored pencils. A book."
"And did I approve of those things?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"And did we discuss other items? Items I specifically told you were not appropriate for a young lady?"
Lennon nodded.
"Use your words, Lennon Rose."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And yet." Gran's voice stayed quiet. Controlled. Somehow that was worse than yelling. "And yet you made another list. Without my knowledge or permission. With all the things I specifically told you were inappropriate. Transformers—toys for boys. Sneakers that light up like some common child running around a trailer park. A purple backpack when you have a perfectly good backpack that cost good money."
She paused.
"What do you call that, Lennon Rose? What do you call making one list with me and then sneaking behind my back to make a completely different list at school?"
"I didn't mean—" Lennon's voice cracked. "I wasn't trying to lie—"
"What do you call it then?" Gran's voice went sharp as a knife for just a second before she controlled it. "Tell me. What do you call it when you say one thing to my face and then do something completely different when you think I'm not watching?"
Lennon's face crumpled. Tears came hot and fast, blurring everything. "I'm sorry—"
"And this." Gran's finger touched the bottom of the paper, resting there. "This is what you really think of us. After everything your grandaddy and I have done for you. After we took you in when your father abandoned you without a second thought. After we fed you and clothed you and gave you a roof over your head and raised you as our own. After all of that, this is what you want. To meet your mother's family."
"I just—I just wanted to know—"
"Know what?" The sharpness was back, cutting through. Then smoothed away. "What could they possibly give you that we haven't? What makes you think they even want you? What makes you think they care one bit that you exist?"
Each word hit like a slap. Lennon flinched.
"They don't, Lennon Rose. Your mother's people didn't want anything to do with you then, and they don't want anything to do with you now. We are your family. The only family you have. The only family you need."
"Patricia—" Pops's voice sounded strangled.
"No, Vernon." Gran stood up, precise and controlled. "She needs to learn. Ungrateful children need to learn what gratitude looks like."
She picked up the list. Walked to the trash can by the sink.
Lifted the lid.
The green paper fell. Yellow star catching light for just a second before coffee grounds covered it.
Gone.
"Go to your room."
Lennon's voice came out tiny. Broken. "But I'm hungry."
Lunch and that cupcake had been hours ago. Her stomach cramped, empty and aching.
Gran's face might as well have been carved from stone. "Ungrateful children don't get supper. They get time alone to think about their behavior. To think about everything they have that they don't appreciate. To think about how fortunate they are and how they throw that fortune back in our faces."
"Please, Gran, I didn't mean—"
"Go. Now."
The tears were coming so fast Lennon couldn't see. Everything was blurry—the kitchen, the table, Pops's twisted-up face.
She slid off the chair. Her feet hit the floor.
Pops looked like he was in pain, his whole face wrong. But he didn't say anything. Just sat there with his hands wrapped around his coffee cup, knuckles gone white.
Lennon ran.
Her feet pounded up the stairs, each step jarring through her whole body. She heard Gran say something else but the words got lost in the sound of her own sobbing—big gulping sobs that hurt coming up, that made her chest ache and her throat raw.
She got to her room and slammed the door. Threw herself face-first onto the bed, pressed her face into the pillow.
Her whole body shook.
She'd just wanted to meet her mama's family. Just wanted to know if she had grandparents or aunts or uncles or cousins. People who looked like her mama. People who could tell her about her mama. People who might love her just because she was Rachel's daughter.
But Gran was right.
She was ungrateful.
Greedy.
Bad.
She had a home and food and clothes and she'd asked for more. She'd wanted things she couldn't have. She'd been disrespectful and deceitful.
She deserved this.
She cried until her throat was so sore it hurt to swallow. Until her head pounded. Until her eyes burned and no more tears would come.
Until everything inside felt scraped out and empty.
Outside her window, the sun went down. The room got darker. Got colder. December cold seeping through the old glass.
She pulled her quilt up over herself, curled into a ball underneath it. Made herself as small as possible.
Her stomach hurt.
Her heart hurt worse.
VERNON
Vernon sat at the kitchen table long after Patricia's footsteps had faded up the stairs. Long after her bedroom door had closed with that final sound that meant the day was over, she was done, don't bother her.
The chicken sat on his plate, cold and congealing. He'd managed three bites before his throat had closed up and he couldn't swallow anymore.
The house was so quiet he could hear everything: the refrigerator humming, the clock ticking, the old house settling.
He stared at the trash can.
If you looked—really looked—you could still see the corner of green paper poking out from under the coffee grounds. Yellow star just visible.
His hands were shaking.
He'd sat here. Sat right here and watched Patricia destroy their granddaughter. Watched her take a six-year-old's Christmas wishes and throw them in the garbage. Watched her send that baby to bed hungry for the crime of wanting to know where she came from.
And he'd said what? One thing. One weak protest that had died the second Patricia's eyes had cut toward him.
Just like always.
Vernon pushed his chair back, the legs scraping loud against the linoleum. Stood up. Walked to the trash can.
Bent down. Reached past the coffee grounds and potato peelings and chicken bones from yesterday.
Pulled out the green paper.
It was damp now, stained brown from the coffee. But the words were still there, written in Lennon's careful first-grade letters, each one formed so precisely because she tried so hard to get everything right.
Lite Brite
My Little Pony stuffed animal
Transformers action figure
LA Gear sneakers with the lights
Purple backpack
Skip-It
Glow Worm
Meet my mama's family
That last line.
Rachel. God, Rachel. Twenty-two years old, so full of life, so warm and open. She'd tried so hard to make Patricia love her. Tried for four years, kept trying even when it became clear Patricia never would.
And his son—his sorry excuse for a son—had looked at their baby daughter and walked away six months later and never came back.
Left her with Vernon and Patricia to raise.
Patricia had cut off Rachel's family the day Rachel died. Returned every letter unopened. Refused every phone call. Blocked them from the funeral, from seeing their granddaughter, from having any connection at all to the only piece of Rachel left in this world.
"It would confuse Lennon," Patricia had said. "It's better this way. Cleaner."
And Vernon had let her do it. Had told himself Patricia was probably right. That it was better for Lennon to have one stable home instead of being pulled between families. That Patricia knew best.
Had told himself that for six years.
But looking at this list—at his granddaughter's careful handwriting asking Santa for the one thing Patricia would never allow—Vernon's hands shook.
She was six years old.
Six.
And she wanted to know where she came from. Wanted to understand half of who she was. Wanted to meet people who might look like her mother, who might tell her stories, who might love her just because she was Rachel's daughter.
And Patricia had called her ungrateful. Had thrown her wishes in the trash. Had sent her to bed hungry.
For wanting to know her own family.
Vernon folded the paper, careful despite the coffee stains. Put it in his shirt pocket, right over his heart.
Then he walked to the phone on the wall.
His hands were still shaking when he picked up the receiver. It took him two tries to dial.
Three rings. Four.
"Hello?" Hershel's voice was warm, a little slurred. Ice clinked in a glass through the line.
"Hershel. It's Vernon."
A pause. "Vernon. You alright? You sound—"
"I need a favor."
"Name it."
Vernon looked at the stairs. At the closed door at the top.
"You doing anything for Christmas?"
"Just me and Maggie and a bottle of bourbon, if I'm being honest." A pause. "Why?"
"Mind if we come by? Lennon and me?"
"Course not. You know you're always welcome. Maggie loves when Lennon visits—asks about her constantly." Another pause, more careful. "What's going on, Vernon?"
Vernon pulled the list from his pocket. Looked at it. At the coffee stains and the careful letters and the yellow star.
"Need your help with something. Can't talk about it over the phone."
Silence stretched through the line. Then: "Alright. Christmas day, then. Come by whenever."
"Thanks, Hershel."
Vernon hung up. Stood there with his hand still on the phone.
Upstairs he could hear Patricia moving around. Getting ready for bed. Her footsteps precise and measured even on carpet. Everything controlled.
He looked at the list again.
He couldn't give Lennon everything on it. Couldn't fix what Patricia had broken over six years. Couldn't undo the damage.
But he could give her something. One thing. One small piece of what she was asking for.
It wasn't enough. Would never be enough.
But it was all he had.
He folded the paper carefully and put it back in his pocket.
Went upstairs to bed.
Lay there in the dark next to Patricia's sleeping form and tried not to hear the echo of his granddaughter's sobs still hanging in the air.
DECEMBER 25, 1989 — MORNING
Lennon woke in the dark.
She lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the house. Listening to Pops's alarm go off down the hall—the same tinny beeping it made every morning. Listening to him get up, his footsteps creaking across the floor.
Christmas morning.
She didn't want to go downstairs.
But Gran would expect her to.
When gray light finally started seeping through her window, she got up slow. Her legs felt wobbly.
The green velvet dress was laid out on her chair. White lace collar. Tights that would itch.
She got dressed, each movement careful. Brushed her teeth. Washed her face with cold water that made her gasp.
Downstairs, Gran sat on the couch in her Christmas dress—burgundy with a brooch at the collar. Hair perfect. Lipstick on. Coffee cup in her hands.
Pops sat in his chair. When Lennon came down the stairs, his eyes found hers and something in his face twisted. But he smiled at her anyway. Tried to.
"Morning, baby girl. Merry Christmas."
His voice was so gentle it made Lennon want to cry again.
"Morning, Pops. Merry Christmas."
Her voice came out scratchy, rubbed raw.
"Merry Christmas, Lennon Rose." Gran's voice was pleasant. Normal. Like nothing was wrong. "Come sit. Let's see what Santa brought."
Lennon's chest tightened.
Santa.
If Santa were real, he would have seen her list. Would have known what she really wanted.
Lennon sat on the floor by the tree. It was real—a pine Pops had cut from their back woods last week, the cut end in water. It smelled like Christmas was supposed to smell: fresh and green and alive. The ornaments were the same ones from every year. Glass balls in red and gold and blue. Wooden angels Gran's mother had made. The star on top older than Lennon.
Presents sat under it. Not many. Five or six wrapped in paper covered with snowflakes.
Gran handed her the first one.
Lennon's hands shook when she took it. She pulled off the paper slow. Folded it neat the way Gran liked, creasing it precise.
A dress.
Pink with white flowers embroidered on the collar. A bow at the waist.
Of course it was pink.
"What do you say?"
Lennon's throat felt like sandpaper. "Thank you, ma'am."
Gran's mouth went thin. "Try again. Look at me. Speak properly."
Lennon lifted her head, forced herself to meet Gran's eyes, forced her mouth into a smile that felt like it might crack her face.
"Thank you, Gran. It's real pretty. I love it."
The lie tasted like metal.
"That's better."
The next one. A notebook with a plain blue cover. And pencils—regular number 2 pencils from the grocery store.
"Thank you, Gran."
Another present. Socks. White with lace trim that would itch.
"Thank you, Gran."
Another. Stickers from the dollar store. Generic butterflies and flowers.
"Thank you, Gran."
Nothing from her list.
Nothing she'd wanted.
Just things Gran thought were appropriate. Practical. Things that had no joy in them at all.
"Don't forget your stocking."
Pops's voice was quiet. Sad.
Lennon stood and took down the red felt stocking with her name embroidered in white thread. Gran had made it before Lennon was born, back when Michael and Rachel were still married.
Inside: an orange. A toothbrush still in its package—the cheap kind with hard bristles. And a small bag of M&Ms with a gift tag that said From Santa in Gran's perfect handwriting.
Lennon's vision blurred.
Santa wasn't real.
She'd suspected it. Known it deep down. But there'd still been that tiny spark of maybe.
But there was no Santa.
Just Gran. Just rules. Just punishment for wanting things she wasn't supposed to want.
And she would never get the things she really wanted. Would never meet her mama's family. Would never know that part of herself. Would never be anything except exactly what Gran decided she could be.
"Lennon Rose." Gran's voice cut sharp. "What do you say?"
The tears tried to come but Lennon pushed them down. Swallowed them. Made her voice work around the lump in her throat.
"Thank you, Gran. Thank you, Pops. Thank you, Santa."
That last word nearly choked her.
"That's my good girl." Gran stood, brushed invisible lint from her dress. "Now clean up this paper. We don't leave messes."
Lennon gathered the wrapping paper. Folded each piece neat and precise. Put them in the bag Gran held out.
Stacked all the presents in a neat pile by the couch.
Sat down in the chair Pops pointed to.
And disappeared inside herself where it didn't hurt quite so much.
VERNON
Vernon stood at the sink washing dishes that were already clean, his hands moving through motions that didn't need thinking.
In the living room, Patricia was rearranging Lennon's presents. Making them look perfect. Making them look like a photograph from one of her magazines.
Lennon sat on the couch in her velvet dress, holding the notebook. She hadn't opened it. Hadn't looked at any of the presents really. Just sat there staring at nothing, her face empty.
Vernon's hands tightened on the dish until the porcelain creaked.
He'd spent two days calling in favors. Making plans.
It wasn't much.
Would never be enough.
But it was something.
He dried his hands on the towel, walked to the living room before he could talk himself out of it.
"Lennon. Get your coat. We're going to visit Hershel Greene and little Maggie."
Lennon's head came up. Something flickered in her eyes—not quite hope, but not quite empty either.
"We are?"
"Yep. Figured you'd like to play with Maggie some. She's been asking about you."
Lennon looked at Gran, waiting for permission.
Patricia looked up from the presents, her mouth thin. "I have my program on in an hour. The Christmas service from First Baptist in Atlanta. I don't want to miss it."
"You watch it." Vernon kept his voice even. "We'll be back by suppertime."
Patricia's eyes narrowed. She looked at him, then at Lennon, then back. Something calculating moved across her face.
Then she nodded. Once. Sharp.
"Fine. But Lennon Rose, you behave yourself. Mr. Greene is a respected man in this county, even if he does have certain... weaknesses."
"Yes, ma'am." Lennon was already moving, sliding off the couch, heading for her coat.
Vernon grabbed his truck keys. "We'll be back in a few hours."
Patricia went back to arranging presents, dismissing them both with her silence.
LENNON
The Greene farm sat at the end of a long driveway lined with bare crepe myrtles. The white farmhouse with its black shutters and wraparound porch looked warm against the gray December sky. Fields stretched out on either side, winter-brown and waiting.
Pops parked the truck and they walked up to the porch together. Before they even knocked, the door swung open.
"Vernon! Merry Christmas!" Mr. Hershel smiled big, his face lighting up. He was tall with dark hair going gray at the temples, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt even though it was Christmas. His eyes were kind but tired—always tired now, since Miss Josephine died.
"Merry Christmas, Hershel." Pops shook his hand. "Brought Lennon by to play with Maggie some."
"Well come on in before you freeze!" Mr. Hershel stepped back, holding the door wide. "Maggie! Lennon's here!"
A squeal came from inside, and then Maggie appeared, toddling as fast as her two-year-old legs could carry her. She wore red overalls with a Christmas tree sewn on the front, her dark curls bouncing.
"Lenn-Lenn!" Maggie crashed into Lennon's legs, wrapping her arms around them.
Something in Lennon's chest unclenched. She crouched down to Maggie's level, let the little girl hug her tight. "Hi, Maggie-bug. Merry Christmas."
"Kissmas!" Maggie announced, then stuck her thumb in her mouth.
"Why don't you girls go play while Vernon and I talk?" Mr. Hershel's voice was warm. "There's new blocks in the living room. And Maggie got a whole farm set from Santa—animals and everything."
"Okay." Lennon took Maggie's hand and they went into the living room.
It looked different than Gran's house. Toys were scattered everywhere instead of put away neat. A Christmas tree stood in the corner with lights that blinked different colors, ornaments hung crooked and low where Maggie could reach them. Presents were opened and scattered around, wrapping paper wadded up and forgotten.
It looked like Christmas was supposed to look. Like joy. Like nobody cared about being perfect.
Lennon and Maggie built a tower with blocks. Maggie knocked it down and laughed, clapping her hands. They built it again. Knocked it down again. Over and over until Lennon's stomach stopped hurting quite so much.
Maggie climbed into her lap after a while, warm and solid and smelling like baby shampoo and milk. She snuggled in close, her thumb in her mouth, just wanting to be held.
Lennon's arms came around her. Maggie didn't care that Lennon had been bad. Didn't care that she'd been ungrateful. Didn't care about anything except being warm and safe.
Behind them, the men's voices were quiet. Lennon heard ice clinking in glasses. Heard Pops say something low. Heard Mr. Hershel respond.
After a while, Mr. Hershel called over. "Lennon? Come here for a minute, sweetheart."
Lennon picked up Maggie and walked over.
On the table sat four presents wrapped in newspaper comics. The Sunday funnies.
Her heart kicked.
"These are for you," Mr. Hershel said, his smile gentle. "From your Pops and from me."
Lennon's throat went tight. "For me?"
"Yep. Go on and open them."
She looked at Pops. He nodded, his eyes red-rimmed.
Her hands shook when she picked up the first present. Maggie helped her tear the paper, little hands grabbing at it.
A coloring book. Horses running through fields, their manes flying. Big beautiful horses like the ones in the barn books Pops had shown her.
"Thank you, Mr. Greene!" Her voice cracked but she didn't care.
"Call me Hershel, honey. Open the next one."
The second one was flatter. Heavier.
Colored pencils. The good kind in a metal tin, every color you could think of.
"Oh—" She couldn't get more words out. Her vision was blurring.
"Two more."
The third present was soft. Squishy.
She opened it with Maggie's help.
A My Little Pony.
Purple. With stars on her flank. Just like the one from her list.
The one she'd asked Santa for.
Lennon couldn't breathe. Couldn't speak.
"There's one more, baby girl." Pops's voice was rough.
The last present was flat. Book-shaped.
She opened it slow, her fingers trembling.
A book.
The cover had bright colors—oranges and pinks and yellows that hurt to look at. A sun. Mountains. And across the top in big letters: MEXICO.
Lennon stopped breathing.
She looked up at Pops. He was crying now, tears running down his weathered face, not even trying to hide them.
"Your mama's mama—" His voice broke. He swallowed hard, tried again. "Your grandma—your mama's mama—was from a place called Monterrey in Mexico. Her name was Maria. Your mama's name was Rachel, and she had Mexican heritage. Half of who she was came from Mexico."
Lennon couldn't move.
"Your mama had family there. Her mama and daddy. Brothers and sisters. You got aunts and uncles and cousins you've never met. Someday—" His voice cracked again. "Someday maybe you'll get to meet them. But for now, you got this. So you can know where part of you comes from."
"Really?" The word came out tiny.
"Really." He reached over, wiped tears off her cheeks with his rough thumb. "But Lennon, you listen to me. You can't talk about your mama around Gran. You can't talk about Mexico or your mama's family. She—it's complicated. She thinks it's better if you don't know. So this book has to stay here with Hershel. You understand?"
Lennon nodded hard. She understood. Gran would be so angry if she knew.
But Pops had told her.
Her mama's mama was from Mexico. Her mama had Mexican heritage. She had family there—real family with her mama's blood.
"The pony though—" Pops cleared his throat. "You tell Gran that's from Hershel. For being good and playing with Maggie. That's the truth, so it's not lying. Can you remember?"
"Yes, sir. I promise."
Hershel raised his glass. "Your mama was the kindest person I ever met, Lennon. Only met her a handful of times, but she was something special. And you—" He smiled through his own tears. "You got her eyes."
Lennon looked down at the book. At the word MEXICO in those bright letters. At the pictures through the clear part of the cover—buildings painted pink and orange and yellow, families smiling, mountains with snow on top.
Part of her came from there.
Part of her mama came from there.
She launched herself at Pops, still holding Maggie, her arms wrapping around his middle as far as they'd reach. She pressed her face against his flannel shirt that smelled like tobacco and soap and safety.
"Thank you thank you thank you—"
His arms came around both of them, holding them tight. His hand on Lennon's head, his voice thick. "You're welcome, baby girl. You're so welcome."
She held on for a long time. Until she could breathe again. Until the tears stopped burning.
Then she grabbed the pony, squeezed it tight. The purple was perfect. Bright and beautiful. The stars sparkled.
And the book.
She sat right there on Mr. Hershel's floor with Maggie in her lap and opened it.
Pictures of Mexico. Buildings painted colors she'd never seen on buildings before—bright pink and sunshine yellow and sky blue and sunset orange. Mountains with white tops. Beaches with water so clear it looked like glass. Food that looked amazing—things she didn't know the names for. And families. So many families. Smiling and laughing and holding each other.
Her mama's mama came from here.
Part of Lennon came from here.
"Can I come visit it sometimes?" She looked up at Hershel, her voice small. "When we come see you and Maggie?"
"Anytime you want, sweetheart. I'll keep it right here in my study where it'll be safe. You can look at it whenever you visit."
"Thank you."
She looked at every picture. Read the words she could sound out. Pops helped with the hard ones, pointing at the pictures and telling her about the places. About the food. About the language they spoke there—Spanish, which her mama's mama had spoken.
"She would've loved you," Pops said it quiet, like the words hurt. "Your mama. She loved you before you were even born. Talked about you all the time. Had your whole life planned out—all the things she wanted to teach you, all the places she wanted to take you. She wanted you so much."
Lennon's eyes burned. "She did?"
"More than anything in the world." His voice broke. "Don't you ever doubt that."
When it was time to go, leaving the book behind was the hardest thing. She held it for a long time, looking at every picture one more time, trying to memorize them. Then she handed it to Hershel.
"I'll keep it safe," he promised. "Come back anytime."
She nodded, her throat too tight.
In the truck on the way home, she held the purple pony in her lap. Ran her fingers through its mane, felt the stars under her fingertips. Every time the truck bounced, the pony caught the light.
"Remember," Pops said quiet. "Tell Gran it's from Hershel for playing with Maggie."
"I will." She paused, looking at the pony, then at Pops's profile. "Pops?"
"Yeah, baby girl?"
"My mama—she really loved me? Even though she never got to meet me?"
His hands went white on the steering wheel. His jaw worked. "More than anything in the whole world. Don't you ever, ever doubt that."
Lennon nodded. Held the pony closer.
More than anything in the world.
And someday—someday maybe she'd meet her mama's family. Learn more about Mexico. Learn about that part of herself Gran wanted to erase.
But for now she had this: A purple pony. A secret. And the knowledge that her mama had wanted her. Had loved her.
Even though she had to hide it. Even though she could never talk about it. Even though Gran would punish her if she ever found out.
She looked out the window at the dead gray fields sliding past. Winter in Georgia, everything brown and bare.
But in her lap the pony's mane was soft and bright purple, the stars catching light.
At home there'd be the pink dress and the boring notebook and all the things Gran wanted her to have.
But hidden in her heart was something different. Something just hers.
Mexico. Rachel. Maria. Family. Love.
She held the pony close and tried to remember every picture from that book. Tried to hold onto this feeling.
This small piece of hope.
This tiny bit of light in all the gray.