A faded coffee ring in one corner.
“This was my mother’s recipe. It’s the only good thing I inherited from that house.”
Her voice dropped.
“She never got to be the woman she could’ve been. But this—”
She pressed the card into my palm.
“—belongs to the women in this family who choose themselves. And Emily, you count.”
I couldn’t speak.
I held that fragile card in both hands.
Margaret pulled me into a hug smelling of lavender, starch, and forty years of steady love.
Behind her, Robert wiped his eyes and pretended to study the poinsettia.
Around seven, the doorbell rang.
Biscuit exploded into barking.
I opened the door.
Daniel stood on the porch in a gray wool coat, holding a tin of cookies and standing very carefully still.
“Mom left these in my car,” he said. “I promise I’m not staying. I didn’t want to intrude.”
Chapter 18
He looked different.
Not dramatically.
But there was a settled quality in how he stood.
Shoulders squared.
Unhurried honesty.
He glanced past me into the warm room, where laughter and clinking glasses spilled into the cold.
He didn’t try to step inside.
“You look happy,” he said.
“I am,” I said.
I heard how true it sounded.
“And you look like you’re standing up straighter.”
“I’m trying.”
A small, rueful smile.
“Dr. Alvarez says I’m a work in progress.”
“Aren’t we all,” I said. “Merry Christmas, Daniel.”
