The air went still. Marlene looked at me. I nodded once.
“Ben. Lucy. Tommy.”
Ella repeated the names like they were important. Then she smiled.
“They can share our Christmas. We have room.”
Later, we sat in the living room, three lights blinking, some cheesy movie playing on low. Ella climbed into Marlene’s lap like she’d been doing it all her life.
“You’re our Christmas grandma now,” she announced. “That means you’re not allowed to be lonely.”
Marlene’s arms came around her like they’d been empty for too long.
“I’ll try.”
That night, after I carried Ella to bed, I stepped out onto the porch. The lights we’d rehung glowed softly against the dark. The little wooden angel turned in the breeze, wings catching the light.
Across the street, through a gap in Marlene’s curtain, I could see the edge of that photo wall.
Still there. Still heavy.
But finally, those names had been spoken out loud in my kitchen, over mashed potatoes and cheap cookies. My daughter had made space for them in her idea of “sparkle.”
Our house isn’t the brightest on the block.
The tree is crooked. The wreath hangs a little off-center. The maple is bare.
But every night when the timer clicks and those lights blink on, our little place glows soft and stubborn against the dark.
Not perfect. Not pain-free. Just alive.
And for the first time in a long time—for me, for Marlene, maybe even for Ben, Lucy, and Tommy—it actually feels like Christmas again.
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