Natalia snorts. “They’re going to get ruined. Or vandalized.”
“I know,” I say. “We’ll keep coming back with more.”
I lean forward and press a kiss to the cold stone, right where his name is carved. “Live,” I whisper. “You always told me that. So that’s what I’m trying to do. Merry Christmas, give Babciu the kisses from all of us down here.”
I stand, pluck my scarf from the ground and loop my arm through Natalia’s. She squeezes, and together we turn away, leaving the bottle lighter, the pictures watching, the silence full of everything he still is to us.
Christmas comes whether we’re ready for it or not. The house feels different this year. The space where Piotr should be feelswrong, like a missed note. A single candle burns on the table for him, its flame steady against the chatter, the scent of wax and pine drifting through the room.
Aga keeps refilling plates even though no one can eat more. Zosia darts between chairs with her new doll, her laughter slicing through the warmth. Amelka sleeps in her carrier, tiny fists curled beneath her chin, oblivious to the chaos that built her world.
Kacper points at the framed picture of Piotr and says, “Tatus!”
I nod, lifting the frame. “Yes, Tatus. Tatus loves you very much.”
The words catch in my throat, and Aga meets my eyes, tears brimming. Rafe’s hand finds my shoulder; I swipe one tear away before it can fall. Kacper looks up, those big brown eyes, Piotr’s eyes, and I smile back. I don’t want him to think sadness is all that’s left of his father.
“He was always happy.Happy.” Kacper grins and points again.“Happy Tatus!”
“Yes,” we all echo, even Mama and Tata. “Happy Tatus.”
Aga rushes to the kitchen before her tears can spill.
Later, Rafe’s laughter rolls through the room. He’s across the table, telling Tata about the first time he tried zubrówka and thought the blade of bison grass was garnish instead of warning. His Polish is still crooked, full of misplaced endings and brave guesses but he never shies from trying. Tata roars, claps him on the shoulder, and throws an arm around him.
“Synu,” he says, son. The word hits me like breath caught in the chest, the sound of belonging.
After dinner, the house glows in that soft, post-meal blur of warmth and clinking glasses. Mama and Natalia are locked in another debate about which Polish soap opera has the better villains; it ends in laughter so loud the windows fog. It feels human again. Almost whole.
My view wanders toward the kitchen and pauses at the doorway. Aga’s rinsing dishes, her hair tucked behind her ear. Dominik’s rocking Amelka leaned against the counter beside her, Kacper at his feet running a toy car along his shoes. He looks down, smiling, murmurs something to Aga that makes her tip her head back and laugh. The sight is almost too beautiful, like watching light decide to stay after a long storm. Something precious that might be born from loss, juststarting to bloom. Something I know Piotr would approve of, would want, for them both. I smile.
When I look back at the living room, the noise rushes over me again: laughter, clinking cups, the rustle of wrapping paper as Mama insists Rafe open a gift first, something she knitted to “keep him warm for the rest of the day.” He’s by the tree now, Tata’s arm still slung around him, cheeks flushed from vodka and affection. Rafe looks up the moment my focus lingers. Our eyes meet across the distance, as if the whole world has finally exhaled and left us standing in the quiet after.
In that moment, I understand. This is what it means to see your future.
To see your home.
A few days later, the house feels different, like it’s exhaling now that the holidays are finally letting go. The tree is practically naked, branches thinning as we work our way down, ornaments wrapped back into tissue paper and boxes that smell of pine and dust. The Christmas lights are still on, casting that soft gold glow that makes everything feel kinder than it probably is. Rafe stands behind me, arms sliding around my waist as I reach up to unhook a string of lights.
“You know,” he says, chin resting on my shoulder, voice lazy and warm, “I’ve been wondering why you put this tree up when we’re nothereon Christmas. I don’t even own a tree.”
I smile. “Because I like coming home to it.”
“Fair point. So do I.”
I lean back into him, feeling his warmth along my spine. “Plus, Mama would bedeeplyoffended if I didn’t. Even if she doesn’t see it, she’dknowsomehow I wasn’t pulling my fair share of holiday spirit.”
He laughs softly. “Sounds like your Mama.”
His arms tighten just a little. “Mum was…satisfiedthis year,” he adds, like that alone is an achievement worth noting.
“Oh?” I glance at him.
He nods. “Christmas Eve wasacceptable. Though the conversation about alternating Christmas Day each year has already come up.”
I grin. “Already?”
“She’s very efficient.”
