I lie back on the sofa and stare at the scene in front of me. The tree stands awkwardly in the corner, stiff bristles spread out unevenly, revealing plastic green legs which slot into one another. I should have purchased a tree skirt. But I didn’t even know what that was until Rachel told me, the day she came to the house unannounced, stacks of beautifully wrapped boxes in her arms. I thought the tree was ok until I saw how she looked at it. She never said anything bad, but the disappointment in her eyes made my stomach churn.

The black IKEA unit is littered with cards of all shapes and sizes. So much waste. Just to say two words. I never speak to the neighbours - that’s Michael’s fault. I told him when we moved that I didn’t want to do all the social niceties. Just hi and bye, no need for small talk and fake smiles. But he doesn’t know how to do that - he’s as extroverted as I am introverted. So now we have fifteen cards on the mantelpiece. And ten blank ones ready to be written out. My job, of course.

The Elf on the Shelf lies on the crumb-covered carpet, discarded. I wish I had the energy to do it everyday. Lucy deserves better.

Clothes smother every part of the living room: the floor, the chair, the corner of the sofa, and the window sill (behind the drawn curtains). I stopped opening them when the sun migrated for winter. If I had a bigger house, the clothes horse would be upstairs, out of sight out of mind. Everything would be neatly folded and I would finally be able to have the type of house that taunts me from the screen.

That’s what I tell myself anyway.

As the living room stares back at me - judging me - numbness fills my core. I ran out of tears long ago. At least she has presents. Mix matched parcels crowd the tree, but even this doesn’t bring me joy. There’s just so much clutter. So much noise. Everywhere I look.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing this scene to go away.

I’m so sorry Lucy.

I wish her excitement would infect me, allow me to feel the happiness she experiences every time she hears the songs on the radio, or sees the first glimpses of snow in the morning.

If Santa was real, I would ask for just one thing.

To be better for her.

(Please forgive me.)