A Christmas Tart

"Fortune cookie?" Mom asked. She held three cookies in the palm of her hand.

Steffi opened hers first. She pulled out the fortune, dropped the cookie into the half-empty shrimp carton, and read, "A change will bring you happiness." The paper followed the cookie into the carton. "I see the change, but that happiness thing might need some help." Steffi laid her head on my shoulder and said, "Right now I'm just tired. It's been a long day."

Mom leaned over my arm to see what my fortune said. "Your joys will double," she read. "Who writes these things?" She glanced at Steffi, who's eyes had drifted shut, and asked, "Do you think it'll work that way?"

Steffi barely stirred when I pushed my arm around her and lifted her onto my lap. I wanted to keep her warm, and I didn't even mind that bit of drool on my shirt. "It could," I said, "but I don't know what Steffi wants, or what you want."

I lifted Steffi's legs and laid them over Mom's lap. She arranged Steffi's legs and covered her feet, and when she looked at me again I asked, "What does yours say?"

Mom cracked her cookie open, dusted a crumb away, and read, "Make room for love." She dropped her fortune into the shrimp carton with Steffi's, reached up to comb her fingers through Steffi's blue lock, and brushed her cheek. "That reminds me," she said. "We never talked about where Steffi would sleep."

Mom's eyes searched my face, and she said. "That's the easy room to make, you know. We have four empty bedrooms, and I can take her out tomorrow to get whatever she needs. It might be harder to make room in our lives."

The warm scent that rose from Steffi already seemed familiar and comforting to me. I watched Mom, and said, "You told me that relationships can't stay the same forever. I think the room's already waiting for her."

"That's what I want," Mom said. "Why don't you carry Steffi up to my bed and take care of her. I'll take care of things down here, and we can all sleep in my bed. I have room for both of you."