“We’re going to get a Christmas tree today. All three of us. I haven’t bought my daughter a tree in years, and it’s high time I did.” Her father’s voice carried a determination that said he would accept no argument.
She hadn’t had a Christmas tree since her mom died. Her dad never wanted to put one up. Then she moved to Denver, and her small apartment had never seemed to warrant the effort, and working holiday shifts at the hospital had made it easy to skip the traditions that reminded her of what she’d lost.
“Dad, you don’t have to?—”
“I want to,” he interrupted firmly. “Your mother loved Christmas trees. She’d spend hours getting the lights just right, making sure every ornament had its perfect spot.” His voice softened with memory. “She’d want us to have a tree.”
Beckett appeared in the doorway. “Morning,” he said quietly, glancing between them as if sensing the emotional undercurrent.
Her father stood with more energy than she had seen from him since his stroke. “Perfect timing. Go get your coat, Beckett. We’re going tree shopping.”
“Stan, you sure you’re up for this?” Beckett asked, concern evident in his voice.
“I’m sure.” Her father’s tone left no room for debate. “Doctor said I need to stay active, didn’t he? Besides, it’s about time we acted like a family around here.”
Her throat tightened at hearing the word family. She watched her father bustle around the kitchen, cleaning up his breakfast dishes with purposeful movements. This was the man she remembered from before her mother’s death, the one who had made pancakes on Saturday mornings and helped her build snowmen in the backyard.
Twenty minutes later, they were driving through town in Beckett’s truck. The tree lot was set up in the parking lot behind the hardware store. The lot was strung with colorful lights and filled with the sharp, clean scent of pine.
“Now, we need a good one,” her father announced as they walked among the rows of trees. “None of these scraggly things. Your mother always said a Christmas tree should be full enough to hide a few imperfections but not so perfect it looked fake.”
She found herself smiling at the memory. Her mother had indeed been particular about their Christmas tree, walking the entire lot twice before making her selection. She watched her father examine a Douglas fir with the same careful attention her mother used to show.
“What about this one?” Beckett called from a few rows over. He stood next to a tree that was tall enough to fit in their living room but not so large it would overwhelm the space. Its branches were full and even, with a perfect triangular shape.
Her father walked over and circled the tree slowly, nodding his approval. “That’s a beauty. Good eye, Beckett.” He looked at Tessa. “What do you think, sweetheart?”
The endearment still caught her off guard, but she was beginning to welcome it. “It’s perfect,” she said, and meant it.
While Beckett and the lot owner secured the tree to the truck, her father pulled Tessa aside. “I know this might seem sudden,” he said, his breath forming small clouds in the cold air. “But I’ve been thinking about what we talked about yesterday. About all the years we lost.”
“Dad—”
“Let me finish,” he said gently. “I don’t want to waste any more time being afraid. Your mother would be furious with both of us for letting Christmas pass by without a tree. I’m surprised she hasn’t haunted the house until we got our act together.”
She laughed despite the tears threatening at the corners of her eyes. “I’m surprised she hasn’t either.”
“So we’re going to do this right. Tree, decorations, the whole thing. Like we used to.”
The drive home was filled with Stan’s stories about past Christmases, memories Tessa had pushed away because they hurt too much to remember. But now, sitting in the warm cab of the truck with the scent of pine filling the air, she found herself adding her own memories to his stories.
Back at the house, setting up the tree proved to be more complicated than any of them had anticipated. The tree stand was ancient and temperamental, and it took all three of them working together to get the tree straight and stable.
“Little more to the left,” her father directed from his spot on the couch, where she had insisted he supervise rather than crawl around on the floor. “No, too much. Back the other way.”
She and Beckett exchanged amused glances as they adjusted the tree for the fifth time. She was struck by how natural this felt, the three of them working together toward a common goal. When had she last felt part of something like this?
“There,” her father said finally. “Perfect.”
They stepped back to admire their work. The tree stood in the corner of the living room where her mother had always placed it, near the window so the lights would be visible from outside. Even without decorations, it transformed the room, making it feel more like home than it had since her arrival.
“We need to get the decorations down from the attic,” her father said. “You two will have to brave the spiders up there.”
“I can handle spiders,” she said, surprising herself. A week ago, she would have been planning her escape route back to Denver. Now she was volunteering to decorate Christmas trees and face attic spiders.
“Good.” Her father reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wrapped box. “But first, I have something for you.”
She stared at the box, wrapped in paper that was clearly older than this Christmas season. The tape was yellowed, and the bow was slightly crushed, as if it had been waiting for the right moment for quite some time.
