"The blue cup specifically?" I raise an eyebrow.
"Dad. Santa doesn't drink from just any cup. That's his special cup."
Lane catches my eye over Sanders' head, her lipstwitching. There's something in her gaze, a softness I'm still getting used to seeing again.
"Should we leave a note this year?" she asks Sanders. "To thank him for bringing Luke his new kidney?"
Sanders nods vigorously. "And for bringing us all back together."
My chest tightens. He sees more than we give him credit for. Nine years old, and somehow he understands what adults spend a lifetime trying to figure out. Gratitude. Family. The things that matter.
Lane's fingers brush mine beneath the wrapping debris. Not an accident. A choice.
Her hand is warm, solid, real. In the years since we split, I've been chasing the memory of how this felt, but nothing compares to the actual weight of her palm against mine.
"We'd better get to bed if we want Santa to make his stop here," I declare, standing up. I extend my hand to Lane, helping her up. She groans as she stands.
"Yes, it is getting late. We all need to wrap it up, pun intended," she says as she hugs our son.
"Will you stay here tonight, Dad? Please? I want to wake up with you for once on Christmas, so you can see everything."
I look at Lane, and she smiles, giving me her silent permission.
"If your mom is okay with it, I would love that."
"Of course I am. Who else will make the "pigs in a blanket" for us tomorrow?"
"Sign me up," I gladly offer. I scoop Sanders up and squeeze him so hard he yelps.
"Daddy, you're hurting my ribs."
My knees go weak hearing him call me that. He hasn't called me that in at least a year. Tearswell up in my eyes, overcome with all of this. I can't believe I gave this up, that I missed this for so many years.
"I'll race you to your room," I call as I sprint out of the living room. Sanders is close behind.
After we read ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas’ together, Lane and I retreat to the living room to clean up the wreckage. For once, the mess feels good. Like proof that, somehow, we’ve found our way back.
I check Sanders'room one last time. He's sprawled across the bed, one foot dangling off the side, breathing deeply. A quiet Christmas Eve after all the excitement. It's just what we all needed.
Back downstairs, the house settles into midnight stillness. Only the tree lights remain on, pulsing red, green, and gold against the walls.
The cookies we'd set out for Santa are strategically half-eaten, crumbs scattered across the blue plate. The presents we wrapped together are arranged beneath the tree, tags carefully written in my best handwriting.
Lane stands by the front window, arms wrapped around herself, watching something outside. Her profile catches the multicolored glow, highlighting the gentle curve of her cheek, the slope of her nose.
I move beside her, close enough to feel her warmth but not touching. Through the glass, I see what's caught her attention. Delicate little snowflakes drift lazily past the porch light.
"Would you look at that," I murmur. "A white Christmas in Eastern North Carolina. I don't think I've seen that in ten years."
The corners of her mouth lift. "It snowed on Sanders'first Christmas. He was a tiny baby, and everything seemed so perfect."
"You're right. I remember that. It was so magical, wasn't it?"
She leans into me, and I pull her tight to me. It was the last Christmas before things started falling apart. Even then, work pulled me away.
"Sanders will lose his mind in the morning. I'm so excited for him," she says, always framing the world in a way for our son to find wonder and joy.
We stand in comfortable silence, watching the snow gradually thicken. Each flake catches the glow of the Christmas lights strung along the porch railing, tiny prisms of color against the darkness.
