“Did we not tell you?” she laughed, light and careless. “We found this incredible last minute deal. All inclusive. Your father needed a break so badly.”
“You did not tell me,” I said. “At all. And we were supposed to spend Christmas together.”
“We meant to,” she said. “Everything happened fast. Besides, you have your own life. You will be fine. You always are.”
Behind her an announcement called her to board. Dad shouted her name. Someone bumped into her and she made that annoyed little noise she saves for when life inconveniences her.
“Listen, we have to run,” she said. “We will call you when we land. Merry Christmas.”
The call ended before I could breathe.
That was my holiday invitation. A casual almost apology and a dial tone. My kitchen still smelled like their favorite cookies.
The oven timer went off just then. Loud and shrill like even the appliances were mocking me. I took the tray out, set it down, and stood there while tears blurred everything.
For a second I thought about crying on the floor. Really committing to the mood. Instead I wiped my face, grabbed my phone, and said out loud, “Absolutely not. We are not doing this today.”
If they did not want me for Christmas, fine.I would want myself.
So I opened my laptop and searched cabins within driving distance. The decent ones were booked. The fancy ones were priced like I needed to sell a kidney. I kept clicking through listings even though my hope was on life support.
Then I saw it.
A small cabin under a blanket of snow. A porch with a wooden railing. A green front door that looked like something straight out of a winter romance film. Warm golden light glowed from the windows in the photos, soft and inviting.
And the location.
Lovestone Ridge.
A small mountain town in Blissmont County.
It hit me right in the chest. It sounded like a place where things actually worked out. Where people stayed. Where holidays were warm instead of lonely.
The price made me blink. It was way lower than everything else, but it was Christmas Eve. Last minute. Most people probably booked weeks ago. Maybe this one slipped through the cracks, waiting for someone like me to click it.
Hope whispered that maybe, just maybe, this was the universe throwing me a bone.
I booked it in under two minutes.
Now the car huffs up another steep climb while the GPS announces my turn in the calmest voice possible.
"Thanks for the heads up, Linda," I mutter at the robotic voice. "Very helpful in this blizzard of doom."
Snow falls thick and heavy, turning the world into a glittering white maze. Huge evergreens crowd the narrow road. Their branches droop under the weight, brushing the sides of my car like they are judging my life choices.
"Almost there," I breathe. "You have this. Pretend you are not terrified."
I pass a wooden sign half buried in snow. I crack the window and instantly regret the arctic slap to my face. The carved letters are simple.
Lovestone Ridge.
The tiny mountain town I pinned my last shred of hope on.
A tiny thrill runs through me. I am close. Maybe half an hour out. Close enough that hope starts waking up in my chest like it has not learned its lesson yet.
The road keeps winding through endless trees. Snow gets heavier, turning the world into a quiet white tunnel. My little hatchback fights every incline and grumbles like it wants to file a complaint with management.
I follow the curves as the forest thickens. My tires crunch through fresh powder and the sky looks ready to unload even more.
