“Ready?” Mason squeezes my arm, giving me that smile—the one he believes is charming.
His over-styled blond hair gleams, Oxford perfectly pressed. Picture perfect as always. I had planned to break up with him. We’d never been serious. But then the invitation to spend Christmas with his family came.
How could I refuse?
Before we take two steps, a whirlwind of curls and energy comes flying out of the house. “Sorry if you’re not a hugger, but I am,” says the tiny force of nature, already wrapped around me.
“Jules, give her a second to breathe.” Mason steps between us, as if he’s uncomfortable with how easily his sister has claimed me.
“I'm fine, Mason.” I hold up a hand to stop him, then lift an eyebrow at Jules, sensing a kindred spirit. “Are you always this friendly, or did someone spike your coffee?”
She laughs and loops her arm through mine. “Come on. Let’s get you inside before you freeze to death, and I have to explain to my mom why the pretty one got hypothermia.”
Inside is even more incredible. The home feels plucked from a Hallmark movie. Holly winds around the staircase railing, and mistletoe dangles from the ceiling. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the snowy mountain range beyond.
But it’s the Christmas tree that stops me mid-step.
Towering in the center of the room, it glows with bright, colorful lights. Branches sag under the weight of homemade treasures: construction-paper snowflakes gone soft with age, hand-painted macaroni shaped into angels, grade-school projects preserved and displayed year after year.
Ornaments that most parents proudly treasure.
“Mom, Dad!” Jules shouts. “Mason and Sydney are here!”
A couple walks hand in hand from the kitchen, silver streaking through their blond hair. Gentle lines frame their eyes, softened by wide grins. A petite teenage girl follows.
“Syd, this is my mom, Margaret, and my dad, Gary,” Mason says warmly. “You’ve met Jules already. And this youngster is Ivy.”
Before I can decide if a handshake or friendly wave is appropriate, Margaret steps forward and pulls me into a warm embrace. “We’re so glad you’re here, Sydney. If there’s anything special you do during the holidays, let us know. We’d love to include it.”
Pretty sure my childhood holiday traditions aren’t what she’s hoping for.
“Your home is so lovely, Mrs. Wallis. Thankyou for inviting me.”
“Mrs. Wallis is my mother-in-law. Call me Margaret, and this is Gary. We’re not big on formalities.” She squeezes my arm and gives me a genuine, unfiltered smile.
Something tight in my chest begins to loosen as I take in their unguarded faces and the way this beautiful, lived-in home breathes with life. I spent a lifetime dreaming of what Christmas with a family could be, and this seems almost too good to believe. Tears threaten to spill, but I blink them away and settle onto the massive sectional with Mason and his sisters as Margaret outlines the holiday week: a Dickens Festival, hot cocoa bars, shopping in town, family dinners, Christmas movies, and skiing.
“Mom, can’t you back off? I want to relax, not have every hour of every day planned out,” Mason whines.
“Ouch, Mase.” Jules punches him playfully in the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mom. We can leave him behind. It’s more fun without him.”
I wait for their reaction, for them to insist their son participate. Margaret’s face tightens, and Gary rubs his hand over his jaw. But neither speaks.
“What do you think, Syd? You in?” Jules turns her inviting amber eyes on me.
“Hot cocoa and Dickens? I wouldn't miss it.” I open my coat to reveal my ugly Christmas sweater. It was a risk, but Jules’s boisterous laugh unknots my worry.
“I knew I’d like you.” She lifts her pant leg to reveal a hideous Christmas sock. “Got a pair for you when Mason said you were coming.” She reaches behind the couch and tosses them to me.
Ivy perches on the arm of the sofa. Home from her first semester of college, she looks ethereal in her bohemian dress and mane of wild curls. She watches me, quiet and cautious, wary of my judgment.
“You want these?” I hold up the socks.
She lifts the hem of her dress as Margaret does the same, exposing matching sets. Laughter ripples around the room as I pull the socks onto my feet.
I’ve got this. Everyone’s laughing. Smiling.So far, so good.
Mason, true to his word, stays behind. As we bundle up in coats and scarves, he settles deeper into the sectional, remote in one hand, beer in the other. “Have fun with the tourist trap stuff,” he calls as we head out. His family barely notices.
