Greg and I
had been together
for 12 years.

We weren’t flashy or dramatic. But we were steady—and I always thought that steadiness was something special.

Our daughter, Lila, was eleven. She had Greg’s gentle heart and my confidence. She still believed in Santa—or maybe she believed in the magic of believing. Every year, she wrote a thank-you note and left it beside the cookies.

This year’s note read, “Thank you for trying so hard.” It made my eyes sting.

Our daughter, Lila, was 11.

Last Christmas was meant to be just like all the others—warm, familiar, and full of predictable chaos: tangled ribbons, spilled cocoa, laughter everywhere. But a week before the holiday, something arrived that quietly unraveled that expectation.

It was a small box, wrapped in elegant cream-colored paper that felt soft, almost velvety, beneath my fingers. There was no return address—only Greg’s name written across the top in looping, feminine handwriting I didn’t recognize.

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