By: Laura K.
“Here, take these to Nicole?” Mom hands me a dozen cookies, iced gingerbread and pfeffernusse, and a glass of eggnog (the boring kind). Mom is always super-sweet to them, like they’re not being paid thirty-one dollars an hour (Dad mutters) to be here.
Nicole (my favorite) works nights. She’s in the foyer of the townhouse (our third “home” this year) (fucking doxxers), pistol holstered on her hip. There’s a tree, but no ornaments (in storage).
I am proud of Mom, but courage and feminism and stuff fucking suck, sometimes.
Nicole lifts the glass to me, a toast. “Merry Christmas, kid.”