“They make you work on Christmas?”

Everyone says that. Some add, “and after all you’ve gone through.” The good ones, I guess. For most? Well, my tragedy isn’t theirs; easier to forget.

Especially easy this time of year.

But work never fails. Code must be written, bosses managed, tickets filled.

Sometimes I almost ignore it all: blood and water on the seat of the car. Guilty accusations like magnets, my husband hovering anxiously away. The hoped-for child, unviable.

Of course I work on Christmas Day. Anything to postpone the empty ride home, my banal descent into a Hell yet unharrowed.

(This story is a part of Loren Eaton’s 2014 Advent Ghost 100-word storytelling. Click here to read others’ contributions.)

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