You don't have to do this, Wendy is about to tell the woman standing shoulder to shoulder with her, but ultimately chooses to bite it back: all the bribing she’d had to do would've gone to waste if Irene happened to change her mind about doing her that one last favor. Not to mention it was rather pointless to bring that up when they were literally standing by her family house’s doorstep – so she settles for a simple “thank you.”

          “I had nothing planned for today,” replies the other woman.

          “Regardless. Nice of you to have brought flowers.”

          “Daffodils.”

          “Mom’s favorite! You remembered.”

          “It’s particularly hard to forget.”

          “Sometimes I can almost believe my family likes you better than me.”

           Irene is certain they don’t. Wendy secretly wishes she wouldn’t take things so seriously.

          “I want to believe this Christmas will be no different than last year’s.”

          “You know it won’t.”

          “Well, I know for a fact I’m leaving this party with an ugly sweater and leftovers packed for the whole week.”

          “If it’s any consolation.”

          “Listen,” says Wendy. “You agreed to come—”

          “Of course. Such a low blow to mention your grandmother’s apple pie.”

          “You agreed to fake it.”

          “Yes, you don’t want to break their hearts. I know it already.”

          “Then why are you making things so difficult?”

          “I don’t see any of your relatives around.”

          She did have a point. “I’m sorry.”

          “Don’t worry, alright?” says Irene.

          “It’s just— I have never felt this terrible since the days I used to hide D’s and F’s from them.”

          “You do realize this is not that big of a deal, yes?”

           “God, we don’t even have a plan!”

          “It shouldn’t be that hard,” reasons Irene.

          “We should probably come up with a plan.”

          "Please, Wendy.”

          “What if—what if they ask me about Midas? I wouldn’t know what to say! I haven’t seen him ever since we—”

          “You could just tell them that he died.”

          “But he didn’t,” argues Wendy.

          “But you could just tell them that he did.”

          “But he didn’t.”

          “So?”

          “No way! I couldn’t possibly lie about something like that!”

          Irene scoffs. “Then tell them he’s doing fine. Swimming and all, as he should be.”

          A weird feeling dawns upon Wendy: it’s realization. "Midas is dead.”

          “Now, isn’t that a lie you don’t want to tell?”

          “God, damn it!” exclaims Wendy.

          “You’ve got to be strong, dear.”

          “Did you at least bury him?”

          “Flushed.”

          “God, damn it!”

          “I was going to get you another one,” says Irene.

          “Please—that is beside the point.”

          “What is it, then?”

          “He should’ve stayed with me.”

          “What, exactly, are you implying?”

           “I would’ve taken better care of him if I’d had the chance.”

          “He would have died eventually.”

          Death was something Wendy couldn’t reason against; she mourns for a good half a minute. Irene presses the doorbell.

          “Listen,” Irene breaks the silence, reaching for her hand (and Wendy's brain goes asdfghjkl). “We can do this.”

          Within the confines of her stomach a gazillion butterflies take flight. It takes her a lot of courage, but she does give her hand a soft squeeze: she was there with her, for her, like it always had been.

          “We can fake it.”

          “Petunia, hold on a sec—” the door swings open to reveal her mother. Busy hands, as usual, she covers the phone’s transmitter. “I'm so glad you're here, darlings! Your aunt is on the line, said she can't make it today. One less mouth to feed, I guess. Do come in!”

          Wendy couldn’t.