Royals

Chapter 38

Emily's Christmas dress is on the top.

I'm settling into bed when I hear it.

An argument.

They've been doing so well, too.

I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later.

Even though they're a floor below me, I can make out the conversation almost perfectly.

"It's because you don't care for anyone besides yourself," my mother screamed, her voice cracking on the last word.

"As if you're one to talk," Dad scoffed. I can't see him, but I know he crossed his arms across his chest like a pouty teenager. I just know.

"Oh, please," Mom sneered, probably with an eye roll. "You care for people only for durations of time. You used to care for me, and now you're over that. And, who's your new victim?"

"My victim? You're acting like I'm a criminal," Dad fought back.

"It's the girls," Mom replied, ignoring his comment.

"I've always cared for them," Dad defended. It's the truth, he has.

"Steve, I swear if you drop them," Mom warned, trailing off.

"Drop them? I'm not holding them," Dad teased, most likely with a smirk resting on his face.

"You know what I mean," Mom groaned. "Knowing you, one day you're going to decide that you're bored and are going to stop being so active in their lives."

"That is not true. How could you even think that?"

"It's what happened with me, with your parents, Joel, everyone!" Mom shouted. I thought Dad's parents lived in another state? And Joel? I'm pretty sure that was Dad's high school best friend. I'm pretty sure they just strayed from each other over time.

"Alright," Dad sarcastically snapped, desiring to drop the topic. "I'm going to bed, good night."

I listened for Mom's reply, but she didn't answer. Shocker.

I just pray Ana remained asleep during that.

However, a knock on my bedroom door proves me wrong.

"Come in," I responded, after clearing my throat.

Standing in my doorway was Ana, red, puffy rings surrounding her eyes. "May I sleep in your bed tonight?" she whispered in a shaky voice.

"Of course, baby. Come here," I welcomed, motioning for her to walk over to me. I rolled over to the cold part of the bed to allow her to lie in the warm spot that I was previously inhabiting. "I'm so sorry you had to hear that."

"It's not your fault," she mumbled, snuggling into my side. "I wish they would stop fighting. At school, we had to write down on a piece of paper what we wanted for Christmas, and then stick it in a jar. Can you guess what I wrote?"

"What was it?" I asked, while internally begging her not to say it aloud.

"For Mommy and Daddy to be happy. I want them to smile and not fight when they're next to each other," Anastasia sighed.

"Is that what you told the Santa at the mall?" About a week ago, I went to the mall with Ana after school so that she could get a picture with Santa. I know she talks older than she is, but I have to remember that she's only eleven years old. And every sixth grader deserves to get their picture with Santa on a keychain.

Unfortunately, Ana doesn't believe in Santa. She hasn't for a long time, actually. My mom spilled the beans when she was six. She claims to have forgotten that Ana was in the room, but I refuse to believe it considering she had handed Ana a crayon only moments before.