I helped Alder and Aspen carry plates and silverware from the kitchen to the dining room, their chatter filling the comfortable silence that had settled over the house. They were excited about the photo album they’d been looking through, bombarding me with questions about the people in the old pictures.
“Aunt Sylvie, who’s the lady in the white dress with all the flowers?” Aspen asked, carefully placing napkins beside each plate.
“That’s your great-great-grandmother on her wedding day,” I told her. “She married the man who built the original cabin that became our lodge.”
“Was she a princess?” Aspen’s eyes went wide with the possibility.
“She was our princess,” I said, smoothing her hair. “Just like you are.”
By the time we had everything set up, Mom was ladling steaming bowls of chili while Dad carved thick slices of cornbread. The familiar ritual of passing dishes and settling into our usual seats felt both comforting and bittersweet. How many more Sunday dinners would we have in this house?
Sylvie opened the bottle of apple cider and filled Aspen and Alder’s glasses while Mom filled our glasses with red wine.
I always admired how Stacy paid attention to these little details with her kids. I loved the way she made ordinary moments feel special. Those plastic flutes weren’t expensive, but they made the children feel included in the adult ritual of toasting and celebrating. It was the kind of thoughtful parenting that I hoped to emulate someday, if I ever got the chance.
But with how uncertain everything felt right now, I couldn’t let my thoughts wander too far down that road. The possibility of having a family of my own seemed increasingly remote when I didn’t even know if I would have a stable income or a home in a few months.
And now I had to try and get over the asshole that had left me high and dry and apparently fell off the face of the earth. I was trying to figure out how I was ever going to have sex with another man and not compare that experience to being with Kent.
He had rocked my world.
The man knew his way around a woman’s body. Just thinking abouthowhe knew sent jealousy running through me to the point I could feel my jaw clenching.
But I had no claim over him then or now. His experience would only improve.
And that really pissed me off.
“Alder, stop making faces at your sister,” Stacy said mildly, refilling her wine glass. “And eat your cornbread before it gets cold.”
“But she started it,” Alder protested, though he dutifully took another bite.
“I did not!” Aspen shot back, her voice reaching that pitch that meant tears weren’t far behind.
“Both of you, enough,” Brom said with the practiced ease of a father who’d refereed countless sibling squabbles. “Save the drama for after dinner.”
I found myself smiling despite everything. This was what I loved about our family dinners. The chaos and laughter were natural. Normal. The way three generations could come together around this table and feel connected to something larger than ourselves.
Alder and Aspen reminded me of Brom and me when we were their age. One day they would have children, but unfortunately, I had a feeling those kids would not be sitting at this table or living in this house. They were the last generation of Northwoods to enjoy this little slice of heaven.
I couldn’t shake the melancholy. I wished I could, but it was just there, planted deep in my soul.
When we finished eating, the kids escaped to the living room to play by the Christmas tree. I smiled listening to them. They were talking about which ornaments were prettiest. The adults lingered at the table, reluctant to break the spell of togetherness that seemed especially important tonight.
We all felt it.
Dad cleared his throat in the way that meant he had something serious to discuss. Some of us instinctively reached for each other’s hands. Mom took mine. Stacy took Brom’s. Itwas as if we could already sense that we were going to need the connection.
My stomach rolled and all that chili started to rebel. Dad had been hinting about this for a while, but the time had come.
“We need to have a hard conversation,” he said, his voice heavy with the weight of whatever he was about to share. “About the future of the farm and the lodge.”
My stomach dropped, though I’d been expecting this moment for weeks. Still, hearing it said out loud made it real in a way that all my private worrying hadn’t.
“Mom and I have poured everything we’re willing to risk into trying to save this place,” Dad continued. “All of our retirement savings, most of our emergency fund, everything we can afford to lose. But it’s not enough. It will never be enough to get us back to where we were.”
His voice cracked slightly on the last words. Mom’s hand tightened around mine. I glanced over at Brom. His jaw was clenched. I could see the anger in his eyes.
“We have to make our peace with the fact that the Northwood Christmas Tree Farm as we’ve known it is over, before we let our dream bankrupt our entire family.”
