If I want this to become real, I need to get better at balance and hand some responsibility to someone else. After this weekend, I’m looking at part-time help. And I’m clearing space in the Workshop. Owen can help me dust shelves, string lights, and make room for her stories.
The farm made her feel sidelined once. I won’t let it happen again.
twenty-nine
AIDEN
By Monday morning,the farm settles into the type of calm that only comes after the non-stop demands of Opening Day and the days that follow.
This is the first one we’ve faced without our parents, and it adds a new layer to how wrung out I feel. But there’s something else in the quiet—an opening to something new.
I just haven’t figured out what to do with it yet.
“It looks so sad in here without a tree.” Phoebe sprawls across the couch, staring at the ceiling. “Aunt Evie says you’re a grinch. Can we put up the decorations Mom found the other day? Do you really hate Christmas?”
A snort comes from the other side of the couch, where Chloe sits with her feet tucked beneath her.
When I catch her eyes, she mouths, “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not a grinch.” I hold Chloe’s gaze for a beat, then look back at Phoebe. “And we can put up decorations, if you want.”
In this moment, it’s obvious I focused too hard on the “I can fix this” parts and not enough on the emotional buildingblocks of the season. She and Phoebe needed out of their old apartment, and I was desperate to make that happen.
But these two love Christmas. So much that Chloe told me I couldn’t ignore it when she agreed to marry me. And again, I was only focused on bringing Christmas outside, where the magic visibly lives for our customers.
Not for the people who live here, and exist in the everyday of this place. I built Christmas for strangers. I forgot to build it for us.
“You didn’t answer the last question.” She flops onto her side, propping her head on her hand.
How do I explain to an eight-year-old why Christmas hurts?
I don’t want to be a bummer while we’re settling in, so I try for a surface answer. I promised Chloe I’d never lie to Phoebe, but this feels too much for a little person who hasn’t felt loss yet.
“I don’t hate Christmas either,” I say, lowering my voice. “Christmas was alwayshugehere—snowflakes on the cabinets, lights everywhere, the whole caboodle.”
I swear the child’s eyes round into the size of saucers.
“That sounds amazing,” she whispers. “Mom always makes Christmas a big deal, too. She can help.”
I envy how simple the world is through her eyes.
And maybe that’s how I move forward—one step at a time.
“We always started with the tree,” I tell her. “My parents said it’s the heart of the holiday. So… let’s go pick one out. Before all the good ones are gone.”
“We can go pick out a tree fromout there?” She bolts upright, pointing toward the fields, eyes wide.
“Well, yeah. Where else would we get a tree from?”
She shrugs, forehead wrinkling. “The store?”
I flick a glance at Chloe, who lifts her coffee cup like a shield.
“You’ve been making your child use a fake tree?”
I stare at her in half-horror, half-shock. Chloe loves real trees.
“I could argue,” she says, wincing, “but based on your reaction, I’m going to plead the fifth and drink my coffee.”
