“Phoebe, you’ve really never had a real tree?”
Her big green eyes skip to her mom, then back to me. “Kind of.”
Chloe rises and slips into the kitchen. Her playful mood shifts to guarded, one I know well.
I stumbled onto a tripwire I didn’t know existed. But something tells me I should’ve. Especially when Phoebe’s eyes follow her and then swing back to me, her gaze less enthusiastic than a few minutes ago.
She licks her lips like she’s considering consequences for what she wants to say, then straightens her shoulders with bravery I envy.
“We got a real one once,” Phoebe whispers. “It made Mommy sad, so we got rid of it. She cried.”
A knot tightens behind my ribs. I don’t want to assume, but the facts seem obvious, flashing like Christmas lights.
“Are you sure?”
“She said it was allergies. But if she were allergic, we couldn’t live here. Right?”
She’s such a sharp kid. I suddenly understand Chloe’s caution about us from day one—Phoebe notices everything.She would’ve pegged us as fakers within a week.
“That’s true,” I say. “She’d be miserable out here.”
Phoebe nods, satisfied. “I really liked how it smelled.”
“Why don’t you get dressed?” I ask. “We’ll head out in a few minutes.”
“Can I pick where we put it?” Her little hands clasp under her chin.
“Absolutely.”
“Yes!” She fist-pumps before she sprints to me. Her little body wraps around my waist, squeezing tight, before she takes off toward the stairs.
I’d taken kids off the table after my parents died—I couldn’t imagine dragging a family through that kind of pain.
But Phoebe has knocked that thinking sideways. She’s only been here for almost a week, but teaching her farm basics, how to tell Blue Spruce from Fraser Fir—she reminds me of the simple joys of taking care of this place.
Mostly, she’s woken up a dream I thought was long buried: a family with Chloe. Traditions like the one we’re about to make, and more. One piled on top of the other.
It won’t be easy, but anything worth having takes work.
I walk to the kitchen on heavy feet. Chloe is by the window, arms crossed and hands cupping her upper arms. The silence that stretches between us feels momentous but somehow also necessary. I know we’re on the precipice of something we need to overcome, but that doesn’t mean I’m excited to reopen wounds to get there.
“At the risk of sounding presumptuous,” I start, “do I have something to do with the real-tree thing?”
Confrontation isn’t my favorite—especially when it pokes at the biggest wound of them all. I tuck my hands in my pockets.
“Yes.” She exhales, grounding herself.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I know it’s not enough, but I am. I never meant for it to happen that way.”
It sounded steadier in my head. Once I say the words out loud, they land flat. I rake a hand through my hair when what I want to do is to pull her close and promise I’ll never let her go again.
“I couldn’t even smell trees for the first few years,” she says softly. “I’d stand in a lot, think about that field, and hear you say we couldn’t be together. I’d get sick.”
The moment hits like a ghost of Christmas past. I’ve replayed that day, too many times, year-round. The only pain that measures up is losing my parents.
Grief isn’t linear. It’s a winter road—black ice under a clear sky.
It spears straight through your heart without warning. I never know what’ll trigger it.
