But as he followed his brother out, the weight of that unanswered text pressed against his chest, heavier than anything he could carry.
Christmas at the Murphy house was always loud, always messy, and always perfect.
His dad had already tracked half the driveway’s snow inside on his boots. His mom flitted between the kitchen and the living room, humming along to carols while she plated cinnamon rolls, her sweater dusted with flour. His sister, Maddie, was curled up on the couch scrolling, pretending not to laugh at their dad’s terrible jokes. And Patrick was on the floor, shaking every gift with his name on it, his joy filling the room bigger than any tree.
This house wasn’t fancy. His dad was a plumber, his mom a third-grade teacher. Life had been hard at times, especially with Patrick’s health struggles, but there was always love here. Always warmth.
And now, Murphy could help. He covered bills when things got tight. He made sure Maddie had everything she needed for school, that Patrick had the care and comforts he deserved. It felt good, right, to give back to the people who had given him everything.
He leaned against the doorway, soaking it in. The laughter, the chaos, the smell of cinnamon and coffee, the love was palpable, woven into the walls.
But his chest ached as his thoughts drifted to Hillary.
Was she with her family, in that cold, too-big house, where smiles were brittle, and words cut sharp? Was she sitting alone, trying to pretend she didn’t care? Or worse, was she at her own place, working through the holiday like it was any other day?
The thought of her there, quiet and alone, killed him.
Because she deserved this. All of it. The noise, the love, the warmth of being wanted.
He wanted to give it to her.
And maybe she’d never let him.
By the time the last scraps of wrapping paper had been shoved into a trash bag and the cinnamon rolls devoured, Murphy finally gave in and checked his phone again.
Still nothing.
The ache in his chest deepened, but before he could linger on it, Patrick called from the card table. “Murph! You in? We’re startingSorry!”
Murphy shoved the phone into his pocket and crossed the room, dropping into the chair beside his brother. “You’re going down, man.”
Patrick grinned, already setting up the board. As the game unfolded, he started talking about his new job through the work program. “I’m working concessions now at the arena. Next time you play in Boston, I’ll be there, handing out pretzels. But maybe someday I can do the t-shirt cannon!”
Murphy leaned over to bump his shoulder. “That’s amazing, Pat. I’m proud of you.”
Patrick glowed, and the joy in his face made Murphy’s chest swell. As the game continued, Patrick had a coughing spell, andMurphy patted him on the back before handing him a box of tissues. He always seemed to have a cold this time of year.
Hours later, after the games and laughter wound down, Murphy ducked upstairs to pack his bag. His mom slipped in quietly, folding one of his sweatshirts with care before setting it on top.
“There’s something I should tell you,” she said softly. “Patrick’s doctors want to move forward with the valve replacement.”
Murphy froze, his chest clenching.
“He’s strong,” she rushed to add. “They think the timing is good. But it’s surgery.”
Murphy swallowed hard, then reached into his wallet. He pulled out a check and held it out. “For whatever you need.”
His mom shook her head firmly. “Murphy, no. Your gifts were already too much.”
“Mom.” He pressed the check into her hand. “You and Dad gave up so much for me. Let me do this. Giving back to you . . . it makes me happy.”
Her eyes filled as she hugged him tight, kissing his cheek. “I don’t know how I got so lucky to have you.”
Murphy held on, closing his eyes.
He said his goodbyes and was about to get everything packed up into his car. When he walked out there, his dad was in the driveway with the hood of his car popped.
"Just checking your oil," he said as he lowered the hood.
