Fragile

April

I leaned over the toilet in the bathroom, trying not to vomit. It'd been a few weeks since you'd broken your leg and I was sicker than a dog.

"Mommy!" You called from your couch set up. "I dropped my crayons!"

Groaning, I sat up slowly. The room spun slightly but quickly straightened out when I focused on the sink. I stood and exited into the living room where your couch fortress awaited me.

Pillows were stacked to elevate your leg, blankets were wrapped around your shoulders and draped across your legs. Colouring books were piled, crayons were scattered and the television played a marathon of Christmas movie. You were struggling to reach down and grab the crayons you'd dropped. I scooped them up and you took them hurriedly, turning back to your paper.

"What are you doing?" I asked you, sitting across from you.

"It's December 15th! I'm writing my letter to Santa. I want to go see him, too. He's in the mall, mommy! Can we go?"

"Right now?" I mumbled, looking at me, you, the clock and back at you. I was in my sweats, you had pyjamas on with your hair untamed, and the clock read 1:30pm.

Your eyes widened. "Please? It's nearly Christmas! And I want to give my list to Santa."

I sighed. "Oh, alright. What's on your list?" I questioned, reaching for the paper.

You snatched it away defensively. "Only he can read it." You said matter-of-factly.

"But don't you want me to read it first? So I don't get you the same thing?" I tried, reaching towards it again.

You pulled it close to your chest this time, wrapping both arms around it. "No!"

"Okay, okay. I'll get us dressed and we can go." I stood, frustrated, and walked into your room.

I came back out a few minutes later, carrying your red and green dress, white tights, boots and hair bow. Struggling to get your leg in, I ended up cutting off the foot and stuffing the rest into your cast. I pulled back your curls with a brush and into a ponytail. You shoved one foot into your boot, arms into a coat and hands into mittens. As you struggled to wrap the scarf around your neck, your letter fell behind the couch.

""Ah-mommy!" You started, peering behind the furniture.

"I'll get it."

I bent down to pick it up. Out of sight, I quickly unfolded it and read it. Turns out, your spelling was impressive for a five year old.

"Dear Santa," it read in wobbly print, "I don't want toys for Christmas. I want mommy and daddy to stop yelling at each other. And daddy to come back to live with us and stop being mad at Arizona so we can be happy again. I  don't want to break anymore.

Love Harriet."