“Come on,” I repeat, voice rough. “I’ll show you.”
The attic door is shut this time, as though the house is holding its breath and waiting to see what I’ll choose.
I turn the knob.
The bulb is already on at the top of the stairs, warm like a blanket. It throws a thin light over boxes containing our whole Christmas history. Mom’s handwriting is everywhere—looping labels, little notes tucked under twine as if she expected life to go on.
Chloe doesn’t touch anything—except me. Her fingers find my sleeve, quiet and steady, anchoring me in place. She doesn’t need to ask what I miss. I’m surrounded by it.
Today, I especially miss how loud the house was—Owen and Dad arguing over a Christmas puzzle, shouting during Monopoly when they landed on one of Evie’s properties.
I gingerly pull the box marked “recipes” from a shelf, as if it’s just another kitchen tool, like my hands aren’t shaking.
“I haven’t touched this in two years,” I murmur before I can stop myself.
Chloe crouches beside me, sniffling softly. When she speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper.
“Thank you for sharing this with me.”
I thumb off the lid and pull out a stack of cards, worn with love and baking experience. I only have to flip through a couple to find the one I already know by heart—her favorite sugar cookie recipe. I rub my thumb over Mom’s handwriting, a small life raft in the ache.
I only have to go through a couple more cards before I see the eggnog recipe in Mom’s neat script, a faint smudge of flour at the corner like she wrote it mid-bake.
Chloe’s breath catches. “That was easy.”
It wasn’t easy.
But it is Mom. Or this house. Or something bigger than me, nudging me toward what my heart needs most—toward the places I keep boarded up.
I nod once, my voice cracking as I say, “Yeah.”
She doesn’t say anything else. She shifts closer and threads her fingers through mine for a second, then presses an intentional kiss to my shoulder.
“I’m proud of you,” she murmurs.
Back downstairs, the house feels louder. Brighter.
Like it’s been waiting for me to stop pretending those boxes don’t exist.
I glance into the living room and wonder why I white-knuckled through two years without this. Maybe because without them, decorating felt like pretending.
With Chloe and Phoebe, it feels like breathing.
Phoebe handles each ornament like it’s glass spun from a wish. My siblings are right beside her, as if we’ve been doing this for years.
I’m absurdly grateful this is how I wade back in.
“Phoebe, when we’re done, maybe you can come out to the barn and come help me on the sleigh some more,” Owen calls from under the tree. “We’re close.”
“Almost done?” she bounces.
“Real close. We’ll polish the leather and shine the metal. Might run sleigh rides before the season’s over.”
Given how things are going, maybe we can rehire some of our former seasonal staff. If they haven’t found long-term jobs. I chew on all the things we used to have around here that are currently shuttered and silent.
“Have y’all ever considered using that older barn as a wedding venue?” Chloe asks.
All three of our heads swivel. Owen scoots out from under the tree to give her his full attention. I can’t believe none of us ever thought of this, but I suppose, considering the circumstances, I can.
