Page 243 of Rush

“I’m fine!” Philippa sobs, clutching the box to her chest. “It’s just, I always feel like the third wheel to you two and this, I don’t know just feels...shut up.”

Aww.

“You’re not the third wheel babe, you’re the horse that pulls our dead weight around—we wouldn’t survive without you,” Riley says, pulling her into a hug.

She sobs harder.

Oh pregnancy hormones.

Andrew and I exchange a look.

Even Mortimer looks at her dumbfounded.

For Carole, I found trinket trays from the 1920s—pastel enamel with delicate Art Deco detailing.

“Oh, these are divine,” she says, tracing the edge of one with her finger. “They’re going on my vanityimmediately.”

Then I hand my father a small box.

Mortimer opens it slowly, pulling out a vintage pocket watch. Engraved on the inside: “Making up for lost time.”

He presses the watch to his chest and looks up at me. “Elena.”

The lines around his eyes soften, his blue eyes mirroring mine—glassy—and something in me splinters. The box I’ve kept buried in the back of my heart rattles, the broken little girl inside it stirs at the edge of his approval, his love.

“Do you like it?” I ask, and the question feels smaller than it should, thinner, fragile in my mouth.

“Love,” he murmurs.

And it lands—quiet, absolute.

After the presents, polite conversation, and the inevitable Christmas food-coma nap blur together.

By the time we regroup for a lighter lunch—and lighter conversation, this whole day has been wonderful, for once there’s no tension, no snide remarks—it’s a Christmas miracle.

Eventually we drift into the parlor with mulled wine and soft music, the afternoon settling over us like a warm blanket.

“Elena, would you like to play something on the piano?” Carole asks gently.

I nod.

Riley follows and settles beside me, resting her head on my shoulder as I play“Silent Night”. Soft. Slow. I start to sing.

Halfway through the second verse, Philippa starts to sob.

“Dearest, is something wrong?” Mortimer asks, his voice lined with concern.

My stomach drops.

The look on her face, the way her hands clutch her chest like she’s trying to hold something in—this isn’t just emotion. It’sjoy. It’sterror. Her whole world is changing.

“Elena’s singing just—” Philippa hiccups through her tears. “It’s beautiful.”

Andrew rubs her shoulder, murmuring something low just for her.

I stop playing, not wanting to make it worse—or better. I’m not even sure anymore.

“I’m justsohappy,” she manages, breath catching. “This has been the best day.”