I watched from my chair as she sat the boys down on the floor in front of the flaming gas fire. It only seemed to be lit this one time of year.
But it looked the part now. Two stockings hanging from each end of the decorated mantle, a thick rug in front, and two little lads now illuminated by the light.
They wore the matching red tartan pyjamas she had given them especially to wear tonight, and they drank from reindeer glasses full of chocolate milk and marshmallows.
"Who remembers the story Daddy told us?" She asked.
It had been the Christmas before last that I'd read it to them for the first time.
"The one about the snowman getting lost?" Asked Connor.
"I don't remember it." Lied Carter. "Tell us again, Mummy?" He begged.
She did. She started from the beginning, did her best with the voices, and had them giggling by the end.
I laughed along, delighted by their joy.
Soon it was time to put the kids to bed; tomorrow would be Christmas Day.
I watched them set up Santa's treats by the mantelpiece: a glass of milk, a cookie, and of course, a carrot for Rudolph. I smiled and waved them off as Olivia ushered them upstairs, the boys laughing and chasing each other. I loved to hear the sounds of happiness again. It made me feel at peace.
"Good night, lads, Daddy loves you; sleep well, my boys." I called after them.
After a little time, Olivia came back down the stairs, struggling slightly with a full sack of gifts in each fist. I went to get out of my seat, but, of course, she had this in hand.
"Don't need my help now?" I observed.
I watched her arrange the presents to her liking and then fill a tumbler with coloured gin and flavoured tonic.
Drink prepared, she flapped out our now threadbare blanket, the one we had cuddled under since we moved into this house, and rolled it up lengthways into a long sausage shape.
She took the bottle of my cologne from a drawer, shook the dwindling dregs of it, and sprayed it along the length of the blanket roll.
She sat with her legs under her on the sofa, the blanket around her shoulders, wrapped tight, like a hug. She took a huge swig of her gin and then began to weep.
And, in what once was my living heart, I wept with her.
I moved to her side, once more trying to comfort her with non-corporeal touches and ethereal whispers of solace.
"You've made an incredible Christmas, Livy; you've made it wonderful for the boys. I'm so proud of how you've coped."
She finished her drink and poured another. Then another.
An hour or two passed. We sat in silence, next to each other, but an unbridgeable distance apart. The bottle of gin emptied.
I hadn't seen her drink like this since the early days of my death. Today was obviously a tough one.
She rose unsteadily and headed for the stairs.
"Don't forget Santa's treats." I called.
She stopped, as if hearing me, turned to the mantelpiece, ate the cookie, and took a swig of the milk.
A coincidence. She'd never once shown the slightest acknowledgement of my continued existence.
Obviously drunk, she made her way to bed, our blanket still across her shoulders.
Her hand gripped the bannister, and she surveyed the perfect Christmas scene, perhaps imagining it from the boy's point of view in the morning. Twinkling gold and ivory-decked tree, wreaths, and warm white fairy lights, presents, and festive throws. And so many cards from family and friends. She flipped a switch and left me in darkness.
I thought in the dark. I thought of the way she coped, the strength and courage she'd shown for the boys, and about my continued existence here. I followed her up, stepping on every creaky floorboard without making a sound, my ghostly body no more substantial than spider silk in a storm.
I walked through our bedroom door and felt a tormented twist of longing in what used to be my guts. I had walked in on Olivia in just her black knickers, about to slide one of my XL tees over her naked torso. She looked thin and fragile, but it belied her inner strength. She was still the love of my life, even in death. The woman I had fallen for and had left too early.
The problem with pleasures of the flesh is that you still long for them, even after that flesh is gone.
She flicked the lamp off and fell into bed, curling into a foetal ball, still gently sniffing away tears.
She mumbled something incoherent. I think she lay somewhere between drunken stupor and a confused dreaming.
I lay next to her, not even creasing the sheets, and, as I'd done every night, reached over and stroked an inconsequential hand across her cheek.
Tonight, for the first time, she turned towards my touch, spinning onto her back, eyes still closed. But it was as if she sought out my fingertips.
