They stood against the kitchen counter, the little boy and his mom, talking. She was making sugar-cookie dough. He was picking out the cookie cutters and candies he would use. He had flour on his hair and nose…and on his furrowed brow.

“Remember the last time we did this?” he asked.

Yes, she did. It was around Christmas, and she’d had a million and one things to do and had been short-tempered. She had chastised him for standing too close to the edge of the chair (as he was doing now). The house had smelled of pinecone… and cinnamon and lemon from the spiced apple juice that was simmering on the stove beside them.

“It was Christmas,” he said intently looking in her face, “and Dad was alive.”

Her hands froze, rolling pin in mid air. The color drained from her face as she sucked in a breath.

“We made Santa cookies and Christmas tree cookies and angel cookies…Dad’s favorite with these green sprinkles…” he chatted excitedly.

She wanted to scream, but not at him…at herself for not being able to deal with ‘life before He died’, and ‘life after’.

Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
Read an excerpt now
TV Shows and Clips about the Death of Cindy James