"It's so nice we're finally together for Christmas!" Jenny exclaimed as she sat down to dinner.

"Yes," replied Mary, staring at her lap. "I just wish Tommy were here."

"Mom," murmured Jenny. "Nobody's forgotten Tommy. But it has been 30 years."

"Excuse me for missing my son," retorted Mary. 

Noah glanced up. "Grandma, what happened to Uncle Tommy?"

Jenny held her breath. For a moment, there was no sound except the ginger ale fizzing in the glasses. 

Finally, Mary answered briskly. "You know this, Noah. He fell down the stairs and hit his head on a brick wall."

"It was Christmas of 1988, right?"

"Yes."

"How old was he?"

"18 months."

"Were you sad?"

"Enough!" cried Mary. "Those are not good questions."

"Mom!" Jenny scolded. "He's 10 years old and autistic. This is how he interacts with the world. We've talked about this."

"He shouldn't be bringing up Tommy right now, that's all."

"You brought Tommy up!"

"I just wish he was here."

"So do I. But if we're counting, Dad isn't here either. You don't complain about that."

Mary said nothing.

Noah seized the opportunity. "Grandpa died on February 25, 1989, in a snowstorm?"

"He froze to death," Mary assented. "He'd been drinking. He didn't have his keys, and there weren't any neighbors that lived near us."

"There was a snowstorm the night Tommy died, too," Jenny mused. "Dad went out... it was the same night." She turned to her mother. "Dad died the same night! We were stuck in the house for days because of the storm. Everyone was crabby, you and Dad kept yelling at each other, and Tommy was crying a lot. You took me to bed, and Tommy stayed with Dad. Tommy was screeching. Then there was a thud. Tommy stopped crying, and you ran out of my room. Then you screamed, and you and Dad were yelling worse than ever. The front door slammed. Then I saw Dad out the window, trying to get into the barn. He didn't have a coat on, and he was hugging his arms to his chest. I didn't understand why he wouldn't just come back in the house unless... you locked him out."

"You're mixing things up," snapped Mary. It was two months later."

"It was the same night," insisted Jenny. "My Christmas pajamas were reflected in the window. You never let me wear them again."

"You can't remember that. You were four."

"But I do remember. Tommy and I were playing downstairs and— downstairs. He couldn't have fallen. Mom, how did Tommy die?"

Mary was silent.

Jenny continued. "There was a thud... he stopped crying... Dad killed him. He didn't fall down the stairs. Dad must have hit his head against the wall. And then you killed Dad! You threw him out into a snowstorm!"

"Check the death certificate!" Mary cried. "He died in February!"

"No," Jenny said. "He was frozen stiff. I overheard the coroner. There was no way to determine the time of death. Or, apparently, day or month."

No one spoke for a moment. Then, turning to Noah, Jenny said, "Honey, Grandma was wrong. Those were very good questions. "