As I stared at the wreckage, angry heat rose through me. We were new here—new town, new routines, new life built out of the leftover pieces of the old one. I needed Christmas to shine, not for me but for Ella, who believed sparkle was a requirement, not decoration. Now that promise lay scattered across the yard like debris. Then I saw something strange: a wooden angel placed neatly on the top step, and muddy bootprints leading straight into my neighbor Marlene’s driveway.
Fueled by fury, I marched to her door, ready to unleash every word I’d rehearsed. But the woman who opened the door wasn’t a villain. Her eyes were swollen, her hands scraped, her whole face carved by old grief. She led me inside, and on her wall hung photographs of three children, long gone but forever young in the frames. Twenty years ago, she told me, she lost all of them two days before Christmas.
Understanding softened something sharp inside me. Instead of yelling, I hugged her. She crumbled. And when she tried to retreat into guilt, I told her she was coming outside to help fix the lights she’d torn down.
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