Three months after my divorce, I promised my five-year-old daughter that Christmas would still feel magical. I said it with a confidence I didn’t completely have, hoping the words alone would make it true. But one evening, pulling into the driveway, the world around me fell unnervingly still. The lights I’d hung with aching fingers and stubborn determination were gone—ripped from the roof, torn from the porch, snapped from the yard. Even Ella’s tiny salt-dough ornament lay shattered in the cold. All that remained was a severed extension cord and a hollow thud in my chest.
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