Her silver hair is pinned tight, gray eyes crinkling with maternal amusement as she pulls a tray of golden cookies from the oven.
It sends a rush of cinnamon and honey scent into the air that makes my tastebuds water.
"Twist the cutter firmly, Sofia, then lift straight," Angelica instructs, her delicate hands guiding her daughter's. "There—your star's perfect. Santa flies straight to the patient ones who bake them right."
Sofia holds up her creation, beaming despite its uneven edges.
Flour is smudged across her small nose.
"Mama, will it really go to the North Pole? Mine's the biggest!"
Angelica laughs, a sound that vibrates through me as she wipes Sofia's cheek with her thumb, leaving a clean streak amid the mess.
"The biggest ones lead the way,Tesoro. All the way to the elves."
She turns to Marta, reaching for a jar on the counter.
"Cinnamon, please? We're spicing this batch extra for the holidays."
Marta passes it over, and says, "You two fill this kitchen with more joy than I've seen in decades. My own girls were the same—dough in their hair, laughter everywhere. Keeps the cold out."
Sofia claps, sending flour puffing into the sunlit air like smoke from a fresh kill.
"Mama, tell the St. Lucia story! The crown with candles and the secret gifts!"
Angelica's posture shifts, her shoulders tensing as she sprinkles cinnamon over the dough.
She meets Sofia's eager gaze, then flicks her eyes to the window, where the garden's rosemary shrubs catch the breeze.
"Alright,Piccola. St. Lucia comes on the thirteenth—eight days from today. She wears a crown of burning candles, visits every home in the dark morning, leaves sweets and small gifts for good children hidden in their rooms. We always wake before dawn, light our own candle on the table, and unwrap ours together. Last year, you found that little doll with the yarn braids tucked under your pillow. Remember the saffron buns?"
Sofia nods, curls bouncing, and her thin fingers resume their work on another cookie.
"And coffee for you, Mama! Can we do it here? In this big house? With Dante and Marta? St. Lucia knows every house, right?"
Angelica pauses again, her green eyes clouding as she rolls out more dough, the wooden pin gliding smooth under her grip.
She glances at Marta, who turns to rinse a bowl in the sink, then back to Sofia with a forced smile.
"I don't know,Amore. We're not in our apartment this year. Things are… different. Maybe we skip the full tradition. But we'll light a candle and eat buns. I'll make it special, promise."
Sofia's face crumples, her small shoulders dropping as she pokes at her dough.
"But she finds everyone. Even fancy houses. Please, Mama?"
Angelica kneels beside the stool, pulling Sofia into her arms, kissing the top of her head where curls tangle.
"She does. We'll figure it out."
Her voice holds that edge I know too well—defiance and worry, born from years alone, now caged in my world of threats.
I stand there longer, absorbing the scene, chest constricting at how desperately I want my daughter's life to be normal for her.
Sofia's innocence pierces me.
Her laughter is rare in a world like mine.
But Angelica's resilience shines even here, where she resists letting her walls down because it might mean more pain.
