I moved the plate toward him.
By the next Christmas Eve, the visit was arranged a week ahead. They came after lunch and planned to leave before the children grew tired.
Brooke brought dinner in covered dishes. Julian hung every coat by the door. Mason placed napkins around the table, counting twice.
Lily’s drawing stood in a frame on Richard’s desk.
After we ate, I sat there to write my charity checks. Lily brought the cookies. Mason climbed onto the chair beside her, and Julian pulled up another.
Brooke paused in the doorway.
“Is there room for me?”
I looked at the space beside my son.
“Yes,” I said.
She brought a chair.
Outside, Charleston settled into the winter dark. Inside, the children argued softly over which cookie had the most chocolate, and nobody hurried me.
For the first time in years, I could hear my family moving through my house without wondering what I would have to surrender to keep them there.
When they left, there were hugs, missing mittens, one last trip upstairs for Mason’s toy.
Then the door closed.
I carried my tea back to the desk and sat beneath the warm circle of its lamp.
The house was quiet.
I rested my hand beside Lily’s drawing, took a sip, and let the evening belong to me.
