The peace in this room is almost surreal after everything we've been through recently and over the last decade.
Just over two weeks ago, I was stumbling in at the last minute for Sanders' holiday show, trading snide remarks with my ex-wife.
Now, here we sit, the three of us, brought together by a challenge our son came up with. We've flown together, interviewed on national television, and supported a single mom as she faced the scariest days of her life.
All of it brought us here.
I reach over, dipping my finger into the remnants of cookie frosting on the plate beside Sanders. With practiced precision, I flick a dab of green icing onto Lane's cheek.
"Woody!" She yelps, swatting at my hand. "What are you, twelve?"
"You have something on your face."
"I wonder how that happened." Her eyes narrow, but the smile breaks through anyway.
Sanders laughs so hard he falls sideways onto the couch, crushing several bows beneath him.
When he recovers and sits up, he starts humming "Silent Night" and smiling like he's in on a joke that his mom and I are not. The melody mingles with the crackling fire and occasional pop of a settling log. Nothing fancy, nothing perfect. Just us.
"I just remembered one more gift I need to wrap," Sanders says as he bolts up and runs toward his room.
I slide from the couch to join Lane on the floor, helping her tug at a stubborn knot in the ribbon. She doesn't need my help, but she doesn't push my hands away either.
"Merry almost Christmas," I murmur, leaning close to brush a kiss against her temple.
"Woody!" She swats my knee, scolding me.
"What? Sanders isn't here, and I couldn't resist. I've been wanting to kiss you all night."
Her fingers find mine under the scattered wrapping supplies, a soft squeeze that says more than words.
Sanders comes back in, hiding something behind his back.
I feel his eyes on us, probably trying to make sense of how the parents he's only ever known apart are suddenly inseparable. I know him well enough to know he won't ask about it for fear of breaking whatever it is that is brewing.
I need a box,” he says quickly, grinning, that single dimple showing. “Don’t look. It’s a surprise for tomorrow morning."
"I won't look," I promise, holding my hands up in surrender as he works on whatever he's doing behind us.
"You know, #SaveChristmasreally worked."
"Yeah, it really did. I can't believe how much you boys did and how much you raised just in time to help Luke. What a wonderful Christmas gift you gave to his entire family, sweet boy."
"Definitely for Luke, but for us, too. It brought us all together. Now we will all remember what Christmas is all about."
Lane looks at me, a small grin on her face. She's warm and cautious, waiting for me to respond, but my heart's too full for words. She clears her throat, a silent rescue.
"Yeah, Buddy," she says softly. "I think it worked better than anyone expected."
The pride blooming across Sanders' face is worth every painful conversation, every tough choice. His dimple deepens, identical to Lane's.
"I told you. The challenge makes people fix things." He adjusts a bow on his neatly wrapped present, completely confident in his nine-year-old wisdom.
I ruffle his hair, feeling the silky strands slip through my fingers. "Guess it does."
What he doesn't know is how many late-night conversations happened after he was asleep. We’ve been careful this past week, keeping things fragile and private. So many late-night talks after Sanders was asleep, so many tears shed over what was right in front of us.
"So," Sanders says, suddenly serious, "we need to talk about cookies for Santa." He ticks items off on his fingers. "Chocolate chip, milk in the blue cup, and carrots for the reindeer."
