Norah leans her elbows on the counter. “How have I never met your niece?”
“She’s mostly with her mom,” I say. “But she’s here now.”
“She’s lovely,” Norah says. “A little shy. A lot observant.”
“That’s new,” I murmur. “Last time she was with me, she was four. Everything was new and exciting. This time…”
“She’s older,” Norah finishes for me. “And things hit differently at that age.”
I nod.
Silence settles, but it’s not tense. Just soft. Comfortable. Then I remember. “By the way… you know where I can get a Christmas tree?”
She almost chokes on her cocoa. I reach over, rubbing her back instinctively.
“You okay?”
She holds up a hand, coughing. “I’m fine. I’m fine. You just… caught me off guard.”
“Tree farm?” I ask.
“There’s one in the next town,” she says, still recovering. “They’ve got great ones.”
“Maisie wants one,” I explain. “Figured I could get it today.”
She nods. “I… haven’t gotten mine yet either. It’s November 1st. The tree selection wouldn’t be great right now.”
“Oh!”
She hesitates. “How about this? Once I get the call that the best of the best are on display, I’ll let you know. We can go get some together. We could make a date out of it.”
The words hit me like a warm breeze after weeks of cold.
I pretend it doesn’t. I pretend my pulse doesn’t jump. I pretend her cheeks didn’t warm when she said it.
“Just let me know when,” I say.
She smiles—soft, small, beautiful—and I swear the shop warms a few degrees around us.
Maisie dunks another cookie chunk into her cocoa, humming. Rufus snores. Norah tidies a ribbon on a wreath.
It all feels very domestic. I try to ignore just how much it reminds me of the last Christmas that Maisie, Ryker, and I had with Claire.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Dorian
Mom’s episoderattles around my skull long after the nurse settles her with her meds, long after the shouting in her voice has dissolved into raw, exhausted muttering.
I knew, logically, that late-stage MS came with this stuff: cognitive shifts, bursts of temper, confusion. But knowing something in theory isn’t the same as watching your mother—your brilliant, sharp, meticulous mother—hurl a vase at the wall because she thought I’d stolen her scarf.
The scarf was in her lap the whole time.
I’d crouched beside her, voice low, hands gentle, reminding her who I was, reminding her she was safe, reminding her that the nurse, Anna, wasn’t an intruder. The moment her breathing eased, that hollow guilt punched through me.
I shouldn’t have left her. Not even for a few hours. But this was for Norah.
I had to stay with Norah.
