Quinn's Journey…
/Quinn's Journey: Love, Conflict, and Christmas
A crystalline overcast
mingled with Quinn’s resolve,
dancing on the tip of her tongue.
She’d tell her father—
like it or not—
the baby will stay.
Fresh gingerbread cookies,
eggnog, pound cake,
and spruce needles
drifted through the holiday air.
Quinn’s fiancé,
Logan had it bad—
Quinn’s father, Bill,
didn’t like him,
said he reminded him
too much of his carefree brother.
Bill placed a loaded pistol
in a locked drawer
beside his La-Z-Boy.
One evening,
sin in her bed
tossed Quinn a wrench—
college plans
down the drain.
A grapefruit,
code word—
for child,
growing—
her mother, Abigail,
sat legs crossed,
tears splashing—
mixed with her mulled wine—
she topped off her glass,
smoking on the balcony.
Bill twirled gin over rocks
in a frosty shot glass.
Frosty the Snowman
played on the TV
above the fireplace.
Shifting flames cracked
oak logs.
“Dad,” Quinn said,
playing with her hands,
like a nervous wreck.
Bill pointed a black device
at the TV—
the volume muted.
“Have a seat, dear.”
Bill’s voice demanding
more than asking.
He placed his glass
of eggnog and gin
on a coaster,
resting on the end table.
Quinn smoothed her skirt,
sitting on the dark, leather couch
across from him. “Dad—”
“God, Quinn,”
Bill said.
“Are you sure you
want to go through with this?”
He rubbed his forehead.
Quinn lifted her palms.
“Dad, I need you to listen.”
She let out a long sigh.
“I want this baby.”
Tears threatened to spill—
her eyes red.
“Think about this.”
Bill leaned forward,
Speaking with his hands.
“I have!”
Her voice seasoned
with contemplation.
“You aren’t…”
“Where’d you get this lip?”
His tone underlaid with fury.
“From me,” Abigail said,
tossing a dishrag over her shoulder.
“She learned from the best.”
Quinn’s face cracked.
She wiped tears with her fingers.
Abigail lowered her frame beside Quinn,
embracing her.
“Mom told me, Dad.”
Accusation infused her tone.
Bill shot Abigail a sharp glance.
“You did?”
He arched an eyebrow.
“Mom has a masters degree,”
Quinn said, motioning.
“And she had me at sixteen,
Dad!” Her voice held passion.
“I was hoping you wouldn’t—”
“Wouldn’t what? Tell our beautiful
daughter the truth?”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
Emotion kinked his voice.
Bill brought his glass to his lips.
“I’m having the baby, Dad.”
Her voice certain.
Bill returned the glass to the table.
“I’m scared for you, dear.”
A tear crept into his voice.
Quinn stood,
crossing the room,
swooping,
knees pressing the carpet.
The room hushed—
her heart thudding in her chest.
“I have you, Dad.”
Her eyes settled on compassion.
“No one’s ever going to hurt me,
Or the baby.”
Bill met her gaze.
“Come here, sweetheart.”
He hugged her.
“I’ll never let anything happen
To you or the baby.”
“Okay, guys,”
Abigail said,
glancing at her watch.
“What is it, Mom?”
Quinn’s eyes widened.
Abigail nodded,
as if to confirm
Quinn’s suspicion.
“Your fiancé—”
“Fiance?” Bill shot Quinn a glance.
The words baked into his eyes.
“Dad, enough,” Abigail chided,
using her fingers to sign pipe down.
“Logan and his family
are coming for Christmas Eve dinner.”
“Why wasn’t I told?”
Bill’s left eyebrow shot up.
Abigail gave him a stern glance.
“This is why.”
Bill stood.
“A son-in-law and a rugrat
on Christmas,”
Bill muttered,
as though he didn’t mean
to say it out loud.
“Better than an ugly sweater,”
Bill said.
Abigail and Quinn
laughed—
not at the words,
but the way he said them.
Logan’s family arrived.
Quinn figured
they’d do a double-take
and run,
but they stayed.
Logan stayed,
chuckled at Bill’s jokes
and treated Quinn with respect.
A Christmas baby—
better than an ugly sweater.
By Andy Cooper
From: United States
X: AC0040