My Husband Left Me Out of the Christmas I Paid For, So I Left novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: The Ribbon
On the living room floor wrapping a coat for her mother-in-law, Dawn hears Clinton say his mother would like her to sit out Christmas; she packs every gift and leaves, even though Marjorie's own text says she is expected.
Twelve days before Christmas, I was sitting on our living room floor with a cashmere coat across my knees when my husband told me to stay home.
The coat was for his mother.
I had paid four hundred and thirty dollars for it.
Clinton set a mug of coffee by my knee and sat on the arm of the sofa, the cabin's grocery list open on his phone.
"Mom thinks it would be better if you sat this Christmas out," he said.
The scissors stopped halfway through the ribbon.
"Sat it out?"
"Just this year. Things have been tense, and she'd like a few days without arguments."
"What arguments?"
He rubbed the back of his neck. "You know how it gets when you start talking about money."
The last time I had talked about money, I had asked why the cabin needed a second set of dining chairs when I had bought six the spring before.
His mother had not said a word to me for the rest of that lunch.
Now I was being told to spend Christmas alone because I had asked a question about chairs.
"Then we'll stay here," I said. "I'll cancel the grocery order and we'll have Christmas at home."
Clinton looked toward the kitchen.
I waited for him to agree.
Even then, with the ribbon cutting into my fingers, I expected that much from my husband.
"I'm still going, Dawn," he said.
"Without me?"
"They're my family."
I had heard him say those words hundreds of times.
Usually they explained a late dinner, an unexpected bill or another Sunday given away.
At the start of our marriage, Clinton thanked me every time I paid for something.
By now he only asked whether I had paid yet.
December's cabin rent had left my account three days earlier.
"I thought I was your family too," I said.
"You are. You don't have to turn this into a choice between you and my parents."
"You just told me to stay home while you spend Christmas with them. What would you call it?"
He let out an impatient breath. "It's four days. We live together the rest of the year."
I lowered the coat into its box.
For weeks I had pictured the drive north.
Clinton beside me, the back seat stacked with presents, the last hour of road winding between snowy pines.
I had saved three vacation days for it.
He had not asked about those days, and he had not asked whether I had anywhere else to go.
"Did you tell your mother you wanted me there?" I asked.
"I told her you'd be hurt."
"That isn't what I asked."
He picked up the empty wrapping paper tube. "I'll talk to her again on Sunday. Can we leave it until then?"
I wanted to believe that meant something.
After seven years, it was humiliating how quickly I could still find hope in a promise that small.
Clinton went upstairs to change.
I stayed on the floor until my knees ached.
The coat box was still open.
Inside the lid I had tucked the card I bought the week before.
For Mom, with love from both of us.
I took it out and held it for a while.
My phone buzzed against the carpet.
It was Marjorie.
Dawn dear, thank you for finding the coat! I saved the window seat for you both, so see you Wednesday. Don't let Clinton forget the clean sheets and the Christmas tablecloth. Love, M.
I read it twice.
Marjorie was always warm in writing.
Across a table she went quiet when I spoke, and in a text she put a kiss on the end.
I decided the message was manners, a way of keeping the peace while her son did her talking.
A second message arrived, this one from Clinton, sent from upstairs.
He had forwarded me the grocery list.
Below it he had typed: Mom also needs the sheets and the tablecloth. Can you have everything ready before we leave?
I listened to him moving around over my head, humming.
I thought about the seven Decembers I had spent counting out money for a place where I now had no seat.
I did not cry.
I tore the card in half and put it in the trash.
Then I stood up, and I went to the hall closet for my suitcase.
I packed fast.
Then I carried every gift I had bought out to my car, one load at a time, past the stairs and my husband's open door.
The coat went in last, still in its box, on the passenger seat.
Clinton came down in a clean sweater with his keys in his hand as I lifted the suitcase.
"What are you doing?"
"Leaving," I said.
"Dawn, don't be dramatic. Where would you even go?"
I had known the answer since the moment the scissors stopped.
"Bayfield. Ellie's been asking me for three years."
He laughed, then saw my face.
"You can't take those gifts. People are expecting them."
"I'll tell them I'm sorry I can't be there."
At the door I turned back.
"You said your mother wants me out of her house," I said. "She just texted to say she saved me the window seat."
Clinton opened his mouth and closed it.
I got in the car and started north.
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