My eyes burn again.
I hate crying.
But this is different.
This is relief.
This is permission to stop splitting myself into pieces.
“I’ll call you Christmas morning,” I say quietly.
“We’ll open presents together over FaceTime,” Dad adds. “Your brother and sister will demand it.”
Mom nods. “And we’ll come visit after the new year, once everything settles.”
Aunt Susan steps behind me, looping an arm around my shoulders.
“Don’t worry, Jade. We’ll take good care of you. We’re gonna get the biggest tree the cats won’t destroy, bake a million cookies—though half will burn becauseIrenethinks she knows better than the recipe?—”
From the kitchen window Irene shouts, “I HEARD THAT!”
We all laugh.
And for the first time in a long time…
I feel rooted.
Not trapped.
Not running.
Not hiding.
Rooted.
Here.
With the sea wind.
And the cliffs.
And the cats.
And Aunt Susan.
And this strange, messy, healing life I didn’t plan for—but maybe needed.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I think Christmas here is going to be perfect.”
Dad clears his throat the way he always does when he’s about to say something serious.
He glances out the window — at Mom hugging Aunt Susan, at my siblings racing around the car, at the Cape wind whipping off the water — before gently nudging me back inside the cottage.
“Jade… come here a second.”
I follow him toward the little dining table. The wood is old, beach-weathered, the kind of table that probably held a thousand memories before we ever stepped foot in this place. Dad pulls out a chair, sits, then reaches into his jacket.
His eyes are soft. Nervous. Proud.
