Chapter 13
Before they could reach the porch, the front door swung open.
“Aunt Mer!” Poppy squealed, throwing her small, snow-dusted arms around my knees.
“Careful, you little snowman,” I laughed, scooping her up into a hug while Maisie wrapped her arms around my waist. “Did you bring the cold inside with you?”
“No, we brought cookies!” Maisie announced proudly, holding up a plastic container filled with sugar cookies frosted in lopsided, garish green and red icing. “Mom burned the first batch, but Dad helped us fix the second one!”
Behind them, Celeste walked up the porch steps, carrying a casserole dish wrapped in a clean kitchen towel. She wore a simple navy wool coat, jeans, and sturdy winter boots. Her cheeks were flushed pink from the cold, her eyes clear, bright, and completely unshadowed.
“Merry Christmas, Meredith,” Celeste said, leaning in to kiss my cheek.
“Merry Christmas, Celeste. Come inside before the heat escapes.”
I looked past her, toward the sidewalk.
Andrew was standing by the open trunk of the car. He had pulled out two duffel bags and a small, wrapped package.
He wore a dark canvas work jacket with a fleece collar—the kind Dad used to wear when he visited commercial jobsites in the winter. His hair was trimmed neatly, but without the razor-sharp executive pomade he used to favor. There were new lines around his eyes, faint silver threads through his dark hair, but his shoulders were relaxed, carrying none of the manic, brittle tension that had defined him for a decade.
He walked up the porch steps, his boots leaving clean, heavy prints in the dusting of fresh snow.
He stopped at the threshold. He looked down at the welcome mat, then looked up into my eyes.
“Merry Christmas, Mer,” he said quietly.
“Merry Christmas, Andrew.”
He hesitated, holding out the small, square package in his hands. It was wrapped in plain brown craft paper, tied with a simple piece of red twine.
“I brought something,” he said, his voice dropping so the girls in the kitchen wouldn't hear. “I... I bought it with my own money. From my own account. It’s not much. But I wanted you to have it.”
I took the package from his hands. It was light, but solid.
“Thank you,” I said softly.
He didn't move to step inside. He stood on the porch, the winter wind ruffling his collar, looking at me with the raw, unspoken weight of three years of silence, shame, and slow rebuilding.