That’s why last Christmas mattered so much.
It was supposed to be our moment.
Not a rushed visit to relatives. Not sleeping on air mattresses. A real vacation. One week by the ocean. A rented condo with a balcony. Just the four of us. We saved for months—cutting corners, skipping takeout, selling old baby gear online. The kids made a paper countdown chain and taped it to the hallway wall.
“Four more sleeps!” Lily shouted every morning, ripping off a link.
Max pretended to be unimpressed.
“It’s just a beach,” he’d say.
Then, five minutes later: “So… how many sleeps now?”
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