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Christmas morning had always been a ritual of warmth and routine for our family—matching pajamas, cinnamon rolls,
and the comfortable predictability of a life twelve years in the making. Greg and I had built something steady together, a kind of quiet marriage people call solid. But the illusion of certainty cracked a week before Christmas, when a small cream-colored box arrived for Greg with no return address and a name neither of us had spoken in a decade: Callie, the college girlfriend who once broke his heart. Greg slid the box under the tree, but the air between us shifted, a silent tremor neither of us addressed.
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