A promise to a family member. This was something Girl was taught to keep all her life. Promises. Family loyalty. Family.
Important, very very very important.
Under strict enforcement of the family motto since early childhood, Girl had never broken a single promise—no matter how foolish, no matter how unimportant, no matter how small—to her family. Ever. In the eight years of her life, never. It was disloyal, Girl had learned, and would be severely punished. Though she never understood why. She shouldn’t question her own family.
So, eight New Year’s rolled by, and seven Christmas Holidays went without fuss. Then came the eighth Christmas of Girl’s life.
Winter this year was exceptionally cold, with the frost shivering through the windows around the clock. Snowflakes the size of goose feathers dusted the rooftops in cascades of white, and icicles laced the house’s wide eaves. The family had an enormous evergreen set up in the living room, dripping with ornaments of red and green and gold and silver. Mother set up presents under the tree and the scent of Christmas—namely of snow and fir—wafted in through whatever little cracks are in the walls, mixing in with the scent of gingerbread and charcoal.
Mother had made the children—Girl, her older sister by four years, and her younger brother by five years—promise not to open the presents before Christmas morning, for the family insisted on keeping the traditions, and told the children to go off and tend to their own business. And so they did.
Girl was in the drawing room when her sister walked in. Being only eight years old, Girl was still very naive about a lot of things, including deceit. Her sister, though, was at the age and personality where deceit was mastered. So, she approached her younger sister, and told her: “Mother put something special in your present! You should go check it out. I hear it’s something you’ve always wanted—Something that isn’t books or scarves or sweaters, like usually.”
This successfully lit Girl’s curiosity, and even though she knew she’d promised not to touch the presents before tomorrow morning—she told her sister so, who left afterward—she still looked at the clock (a quarter ‘till eleven) and creaked open the door as silent as an eight-year-old could. She slipped down the quiet and fast-asleep hallway and down the stairway, which was dim save for the faint glow of burnt-out charcoal in the parlor that lay at the very end.
She let her curiosity guide her towards the lush evergreen and bent down, rummaging through the large pile of carefully wrapped boxes, searching for her name. Every time a noise was too loud, her nerves screamed at her to let go of it and get back upstairs. Curiosity, still, held her in place and made her keep searching.
There it was, lying at the far bottom. A green-and-silver box with a red ribbon. She scrambles to pick it up, and was about to untie the string when—-
Do I really want to do this? What if they notice?
Just stash it in the back and pretend to be surprised in the morning.
I promised mum—
Yes. Well, but don’t you wanna see what’s inside? It’s going to be unwrapped either way. Go for it. Go for it go for it go for it.
…
“There was a moment, one brief moment, where the act of disobedience hung in the air like a buttered crumpet, waiting to be fetched and gobbled up.”
— Nooks and Crannies, Jessica Lawson.
Just this once.
With the tugs at the red ribbon, the string falls loosely. It was a quiet, small movement, but something subtle and important was changed. Some sort of record ended, like a piece of blank paper that was finally blotted with the first few drops of ink. Girl’s heart pounded, and for a second she looked down at her trembling hands, making sure she did just do that—or rather, she didn’t just do that. The ribbon lay there, as untied and as detached as a ribbon can be. She panicked, and what she just did caught up to her. I broke a promise I made to my own mother. I broke it. I broke it, I broke it, I broke it. With an ashen face, she lifted the box lid. It has already come to this anyway.
In the morning, Girl did manage to pull the show off, gasping happily in pretense-surprise and hugging her parents, sweetly smiling. Nobody knew about the eighth Christmas—perhaps her sister knew, Girl wasn’t sure—save for herself. But the guilt of breaking a family promise—on something as small as Christmas when she was eight—had meant something. Broke something. She had lied. She didn’t keep her promise, and it wasn’t just that. Someone else could have easily done it, but Girl, all her childhood, had been reminded the importance of family. The Christmas Present lay on a dusty layer in the attic, the now old and frayed copy of “Hans Christian Andersen’s Fairy Tales” forgotten and untouched in the box, its contents refused to be looked at.
Important, very very very important.
Under strict enforcement of the family motto since early childhood, Girl had never broken a single promise—no matter how foolish, no matter how unimportant, no matter how small—to her family. Ever. In the eight years of her life, never. It was disloyal, Girl had learned, and would be severely punished. Though she never understood why. She shouldn’t question her own family.
So, eight New Year’s rolled by, and seven Christmas Holidays went without fuss. Then came the eighth Christmas of Girl’s life.
Winter this year was exceptionally cold, with the frost shivering through the windows around the clock. Snowflakes the size of goose feathers dusted the rooftops in cascades of white, and icicles laced the house’s wide eaves. The family had an enormous evergreen set up in the living room, dripping with ornaments of red and green and gold and silver. Mother set up presents under the tree and the scent of Christmas—namely of snow and fir—wafted in through whatever little cracks are in the walls, mixing in with the scent of gingerbread and charcoal.
Mother had made the children—Girl, her older sister by four years, and her younger brother by five years—promise not to open the presents before Christmas morning, for the family insisted on keeping the traditions, and told the children to go off and tend to their own business. And so they did.
Girl was in the drawing room when her sister walked in. Being only eight years old, Girl was still very naive about a lot of things, including deceit. Her sister, though, was at the age and personality where deceit was mastered. So, she approached her younger sister, and told her: “Mother put something special in your present! You should go check it out. I hear it’s something you’ve always wanted—Something that isn’t books or scarves or sweaters, like usually.”
This successfully lit Girl’s curiosity, and even though she knew she’d promised not to touch the presents before tomorrow morning—she told her sister so, who left afterward—she still looked at the clock (a quarter ‘till eleven) and creaked open the door as silent as an eight-year-old could. She slipped down the quiet and fast-asleep hallway and down the stairway, which was dim save for the faint glow of burnt-out charcoal in the parlor that lay at the very end.
She let her curiosity guide her towards the lush evergreen and bent down, rummaging through the large pile of carefully wrapped boxes, searching for her name. Every time a noise was too loud, her nerves screamed at her to let go of it and get back upstairs. Curiosity, still, held her in place and made her keep searching.
There it was, lying at the far bottom. A green-and-silver box with a red ribbon. She scrambles to pick it up, and was about to untie the string when—-
Do I really want to do this? What if they notice?
Just stash it in the back and pretend to be surprised in the morning.
I promised mum—
Yes. Well, but don’t you wanna see what’s inside? It’s going to be unwrapped either way. Go for it. Go for it go for it go for it.
…
“There was a moment, one brief moment, where the act of disobedience hung in the air like a buttered crumpet, waiting to be fetched and gobbled up.”
— Nooks and Crannies, Jessica Lawson.
Just this once.
With the tugs at the red ribbon, the string falls loosely. It was a quiet, small movement, but something subtle and important was changed. Some sort of record ended, like a piece of blank paper that was finally blotted with the first few drops of ink. Girl’s heart pounded, and for a second she looked down at her trembling hands, making sure she did just do that—or rather, she didn’t just do that. The ribbon lay there, as untied and as detached as a ribbon can be. She panicked, and what she just did caught up to her. I broke a promise I made to my own mother. I broke it. I broke it, I broke it, I broke it. With an ashen face, she lifted the box lid. It has already come to this anyway.
In the morning, Girl did manage to pull the show off, gasping happily in pretense-surprise and hugging her parents, sweetly smiling. Nobody knew about the eighth Christmas—perhaps her sister knew, Girl wasn’t sure—save for herself. But the guilt of breaking a family promise—on something as small as Christmas when she was eight—had meant something. Broke something. She had lied. She didn’t keep her promise, and it wasn’t just that. Someone else could have easily done it, but Girl, all her childhood, had been reminded the importance of family. The Christmas Present lay on a dusty layer in the attic, the now old and frayed copy of “Hans Christian Andersen’s Fairy Tales” forgotten and untouched in the box, its contents refused to be looked at.
