𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐲 | 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐨𝐫

𝐨𝐧𝐞

Christmas day, 1940

━━━I AWOKE IN THE BEDROOM OF
my childhood home. Seabrook, New York. That's where I grew up. The seafront of Long Island; the very center of my heart.

I sat up in bed, stretching my arms up as I gazed out of the big Palladian window by my bedside. It was no longer snowing, but the morning was white and brisk. With snow-covered tree tops and red poinsettias blooming in the garden, it was undeniably Christmas morning.

My silk sheets kept me warm from the terrific cold outside, and my pink nightie was soft and flowing. I swept my blonde curls from my face and tucked them behind my ear. I smiled to myself, turning to see a vase of white Vandella roses and the framed photo of me in a tutu on my bedside table. I was a ballerina until I moved to Manhattan at nineteen, and I've missed it ever since.
I switched the radio on, and 'Little White Lies' by Ella Fitzgerald began to play.

I heard a knock at my door, and before I could answer the door was pushed forward and I was greeted by a warm grin.
"Good morning, Miss Swanson. Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas, Constance." I smiled sleepily.

Constance would always wake me up on weekdays when I was only a little girl. I was reminded of the Christmases before as George, our butler, rolled in carts of decadent pastries and cakes. I rolled out of bed and greeted them both with a warm embrace.

"Your mother and father are awake," Constance started. "I hear there's a surprise for you."
I smiled at her with gratuity as I practically spun out the door.

The golden-lit tree in the grand foyer stood taller than the vast staircases surrounding it. I sped down the stairs, my silk nightie flowing behind me. I felt like a little kid, all excited on Christmas morning. It felt like home.

My mother appeared in the foyer, her blue eyes sparkling under the light of the chandelier.
"Merry Christmas, Darling." She beamed, standing at the bottom of the staircase.
My mother was truly my dearest friend. Always has been, always will be. We'd go shopping down Fifth Avenue together often, never deciding on a dress or a hat without hearing the other person's input first. She was born in Cape Cod; brought up to be a beautiful ballerina, just like me. She moved to New York and attended Sarah Lawrence. She'd met my father in the city. "It was love at first sight," She'd said.

"Merry Christmas, Mother." I embraced her.

"There she is," My father beamed, standing beneath the archway that led to the dining room. "The princess is finally awake."
"Merry Christmas, Daddy." I made my way to him and planted a kiss on his cheek.
Daddy always said I had the voice of an angel. I sang like his mother once did before she had children. He believed that I was destined to be a star. Daddy was born in Charleston, South Carolina. The Swansons have been wealthy for generations upon generations. He lived there until he moved to New York, becoming the Chief Executive Officer of his grandfather's business. He had always encouraged me to be great. From when I was a little ballerina to a singing socialite, in his eyes, I was the epitome of success.

"Come on now, there's a surprise waiting for you." Daddy smiled and placed a hand on my shoulder.
"Daddy, I know! Santa came! Doesn't he always--" I stopped in my tracks.
"Porter!" I almost squealed, running over to him.

"Hiya, Rosie." He grinned wholeheartedly.
Porter, my older brother. He's called me 'Rosie' since we were little kids. He's quite overprotective, I must say, but it's always been that way. He's five years older than me, so he's been bossing me around since we were little kids. Porter and I were put on a pedestal from an early age, and we were strongly encouraged to be perfect, but it seems as though the whole world already believes that we are.