He reached into the box and pulled out a wooden heart ornament. Smooth grain beneath glossy red paint, perfectly sanded, the edges sealed.Tom + Lowas carved into it. His throat went tight.
He’d though these things were childish. Had stood right beside his mother and smiled while Judith saidhandmade décor can be a bit much, don’t you think?
And Lauren—God, she’d just smiled and said,I like “a bit much”.
He pressed the ornament into his palm until the edges bit into his skin.
He pulled the next box toward him. He peeled back the flaps.
Inside—sequins. White fabric. A miniature Elvis jumpsuit with a glittering blue belt. Their first dance immortalized in glitter and thread.
He remembered that night—his chest so full he could barely breathe. He had held her like the world was new and she was the only thing in it.
And she’d commemorated that moment. With her hands. With love.
He had thought all of this was kitsch. Excess. Too much.
But now—now he could see what it really was:
Time. Memory. Craftswomanship. Every piece an act of devotion.
And he’d made her throw it all away.
The lingerie lay at the bottom of the box, folded small and neat—red as holly berries, lace delicate as breath.
She’d been ready to offer him every inch of herself, body and heart.
Tom pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.
He stayed like that for a long time, breathing around the ache, staring at the half-open box of their life—their Christmases, their vows, their magic.
He sat there for a long time, staring at the half-empty box, until Gerald’s words came back again.
Fix it.
CHAPTER 49
Lauren
Lauren should be thinkingabout Valentine’s Day, or Easter, or springtime.
The miniature house wobbled in her hand.
She pressed the glue gun trigger.
The craft table looked like December had exploded. Cardboard scraps, half-painted figurines, tangled lights. Glitter everywhere—on her sleeves, in her hair, ground into the floorboards.
She was making a Christmas village. For herself.
Not the kind you bought from department stores.
This one was cardboard and clay and felt and foil—cut carefully, glued precisely, loud andalive.
Christmas had always been her thing.The season she waited for. She’d loved it since childhood—from those first paper snowflakes and pipe-cleaner reindeer. Over time the crafts changed—cardboard became carved wood, crayons became paint pens, glue sticks became embroidery thread.
She hadn’t grown out of Christmas. She’d grown into it.
Christmas wasn’t just decoration. It was belief.
