I chuckle at her excitement.
"Morning," he says gruffly.
"Good morning," Chance greets us.
"Coffee's ready," I say.
He pours himself a cup while Mel chatters about her plans for the day.
"What can I help with?" he asks.
The question catches me off guard. "Do you have time?"
"I’m making time. What should I do first?"
The three of us spend the morning baking cookies, laughing, teasing each other and making a mess of the kitchen.
Then his phone rings.
Chance glances at the screen, and something in his expression shifts.
"It's Zeke," he says, stepping toward the door. "I should take this."
He goes outside, and I watch through the window as he paces the porch, his free hand raking through his hair. Even from here, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he's gone rigid.
Mel notices too. "Uncle Zeke?"
I nod.
"I haven't talked to him in forever." There's hurt in her voice. "He doesn't even call on my birthday anymore."
My heart aches for her. Another person who left. Another abandonment she's had to survive.
When Chance comes back, all the color has drained from his face. The softness from this morning and the past week is gone, replaced by the closed-off expression I remember from my first days at the ranch.
"That was Zeke." His voice is hollow. "He's coming home."
This should be a good thing. Why is Chance upset?
"Uncle Zeke is coming for Christmas?"
"Not for Christmas." Chance's jaw is tight, his hands clenched at his sides. "He'll be here on the twenty-seventh."
For the rest of the day, Chance is distant. I watch him retreat into himself, brick by brick rebuilding the walls that had started to crumble.
"What’s the matter?" I ask when Mel runs upstairs to get something.
"Just need to think. Got a lot on my mind."
"Talking might help."
"I said I need to think, Anita." His voice is sharp, cutting. "Please."
So, I give him space. But it feels like he's pulling away from me again.
We make it through dinner—Christmas Eve tamales, buñuelos and all the traditional dishes I grew up with. I've poured my heart into this meal, trying to share my culture, my traditions, my love through food.
The food is delicious. I know it is. But no one's really tasting it. Mel tries to keep the conversation going, asking questions about each dish, complimenting everything. But even she can feel the tension at the table.
