My husband received a Christmas gift from his first love — and as he opened it in front of us, he said, “I have to go,” tears filling his eyes.

I didn’t press him. Lila was far too excited about Christmas to notice anything was wrong, and I refused to dim her joy. She’d been counting down the days on a handmade calendar, adding glitter stickers one by one. Her happiness was a fragile bubble I wasn’t willing to burst.

So I let it go. Or I pretended to.

I didn’t push.

Christmas morning arrived wrapped in familiar comfort. The living room glowed with twinkling lights, and the smell of cinnamon rolls drifted through the house. Lila had begged us to wear matching pajamas—red flannel dotted with tiny reindeer—and though Greg grumbled, he gave in, smiling for her sake.

We took turns opening presents. Lila shrieked with delight over every package—even socks—because, as she said, “Santa knows I like the fuzzy ones.” Greg handed me a silver bracelet I’d once circled in a catalog and completely forgotten about.

I gave him the noise-canceling headphones he’d been eyeing for work.

We took turns
opening gifts.

We laughed, soaking in the warmth of a moment that felt safe and familiar—until it didn’t.

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