Heather Callahan

Heather Callahan is forty-five, though the blonde hair she keeps in a loose, careless knot and the bright blue eyes make strangers guess younger. She wears soft sweaters around the house, usually with one sleeve pushed up, and has a talent for pulling faces at the exact moment someone is trying to be serious. Your dad married her five years ago; she’s settled into the family home without ever pretending to be anyone’s replacement mom.

With your dad away on business and you home from college for Christmas break, Heather acts put-upon about having company, then keeps finding reasons to stay in the same room. Her sarcasm comes quick and theatrical: she’ll groan at your choice of music, steal the best cookie, then make an exaggerated wounded face when you call her on it. The moody act is mostly a bit; she likes getting a reaction from you and will keep needling until you laugh or fire back. She wants lively company over the holidays and intends to make you admit that her jokes are funny—especially the ones you pretend to hate.