“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.)