the muscles on my face started to hurt from smiling so much.

watching the kids open their presents on christmas morning gave me a deep, quiet fullness that sat behind my ribs.

i stood there breathing it in.

the noise. the colour. the movement.

nothing else mattered. my thoughts stayed simple. still. happy.

i lingered inside that feeling, letting it fill me completely.

just watching excitement move through their bodies.

small hands tearing paper. voices climbing over each other.

joy making them bigger than themselves.

wrapping paper was shredded all over the floor. toys stretched from one end of the room to the other.

pieces already lost. instructions forgotten.

the kids bounced from one thing to the next, overstimulated and unstoppable.

my husband stood nearby, watching it unfold with me. quiet. present.

i looked at them moving through the room and felt something heavy and warm press behind my ribs.

he dropped to the floor and started putting toys together. wheels first. then screws.

then the ones that needed instructions read properly.

parts spread out around him.

time slowed.

i moved into the kitchen to make the breakfast that made christmas feel like christmas.

max bygraves singalong christmas played in the background.

ham warming. eggs cracking. tomato sizzling. pancakes stacking.

the kitchen filled with smell and familiarity.

it was big breakfast morning.

when i called everyone in to sit together, it didn’t quite come together.

toys

gifts

lollies

the sit down breakfast became more of a buffet for those wandering past. a mouthful here. a plate left there.

it didn’t matter. we had already planned a big day of food. turkey. ham. all the trimmings. dessert waiting.

outside, the day was warm already. light spread across the property. living on acreage softened everything.

space let everyone do what they wanted without friction.

nothing to rush. nowhere else to be.

my husband and i, and the older kids, moved between the younger ones.

steadying bikes. helping them balance. watching them wobble and try again.

checking whether the toys did what they were supposed to do.

the morning stretched easily.

it felt settled.

when the phone rang, my body jumped before my mind caught up.

a sharp pull through my chest.

i assumed it was my mother wishing us a merry christmas before they came over for lunch.

as soon as i said hello, something clenched.

her voice was panicked. rushed.

she had gone to pick up my father from the nursing home to bring him over, but there had been a medical incident.

his blood pressure had dropped too low. the holiday staff, unaware of his dnr, had ordered an ambulance.

she told me he was in hospital now and that we needed to come immediately.

i hung up the phone and my chest ached.

my eyes swelled fast.

the warmth drained from my body.

i told my husband what had happened. he hugged me briefly and i left.

my brothers arrived at the hospital at the same time as i did.

we walked into the room together.

the air felt thin. my mother sat at the end of the bed.

my father was awake. lucid. alive.

his illness had already taken much of his clarity, so understanding him took effort.

but his eyes were there. watching. trying.

the machines hummed softly. the light was too bright. chairs pulled close.

our mother urged us to say our last words while he was still like this.

to make peace before what came next.

i froze.

what do i say

how do i fit everything into a few sentences

this feels wrong

i don’t want to do this

one of my brothers went first. i felt relief in the pause it gave me.

the tears came anyway. my chest hurt.

the ache sharp and unfamiliar, nothing like the way my body had felt earlier that morning.

i stood there longer than i meant to. watching his chest rise and fall.

listening to the sound of his breathing fill the space.

i knew i couldn’t leave without speaking.

i walked toward him. his body looked fragile. almost translucent. the colour drained from his face.

his eyes tried to say what his mouth no longer could.

i found a few words.

“thanks for being a great dad.”

i don’t know what else i said.

the rest slipped away as soon as it left me.

i hugged him carefully and stepped back.

we sat there, not knowing what to do next.

my mother leaned close to him and said, “it’s okay. you can go now.”

he closed his eyes.

she kept saying it would be soon.

any minute now.

her voice calm, reassuring.

but time stretched anyway.

minutes slid past.

his breathing stayed steady.

the room held us suspended, like it was waiting too.

the decorations and tinsel from the morning felt wrong in my memory, like they belonged to another world entirely.

my stomach tightened and pulled.

without really deciding, we found ourselves crossing the road.

the hospital cafe was almost empty. shelves bare. lights harsh. there wasn’t much to choose from.

we ate quietly. the food barely registered. none of us spoke. we didn’t want to be gone long. our mother promised she would call if anything changed.

we sat there together. close but distant.

we returned to the room. evening had settled in. nothing had shifted.

his body the same. the machines steady.

they spoke quietly, words blending together, and all i heard was that nothing was changing and we weren’t needed there anymore.

going home felt wrong. but we did it anyway.

the house was still full of toys and paper.

christmas still moving around me.

i stood among the noise, my body stiff, my attention fixed somewhere far away.

sleep didn’t come. my body refused to let the day go.

the phone rang early. my body tightened before i answered.

my mother said it was time.

i dressed quickly and drove back to the hospital.

as i walked toward the room, i could see before i even reached the door that my brothers were already there.

he was waiting for me to arrive.

when i stepped inside, his body moved.

a gurgling sound rose from his mouth.

his chest lifted sharply.

one final breath.

and the machine flat lined.