Nice of you to stop in on your way somewhere else. Somewhere more enjoyable, I imagine. Well, I make things as nice as I can on my little budget, and if that’s not good enough, I guess you’ll find something more to your liking over at your father’s house. Of course his house is nicer. That’s what happens when you run off with the daughter of a window-treatment magnate—all of a sudden, everything’s roast beef and doilies.

I suppose you’ll want your presents. They’re under the tree, but don’t get too excited. I’m trying to clean out the garage, so most of what you’re getting is remnants of your father’s old fishing tackle and a couple of polyester neckties. That big box wrapped in a trash bag is a selection of his dress shirts from when he was head of the Odd Fellows, and a plastic baggie of Rolodex cards. Go to town.

I guess it’s not much of a Christmas, but then, he wasn’t much of a husband. Lord knows you take after him.

Anyway, happy holidays. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be just fine.