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“Mary Sue, thank you so much, I love—ouch!” Isabelle yelped, rubbing her backside.
Sage blinked up at her with pure innocence. “Oooh, sis… must’ve been the ghost of Christmas butt-slap.”
Isabelle narrowed her eyes, lips twitching. “Game on, girl.”
Sage winked back, grinning.
“Michael?” Mary Sue said matter-of-factly, moving on without missing a beat.
Michael looked startled as she placed a jar of the diner’s famous sweet jelly and a handwritten card into his hands. He read the card twice. Finally he cleared his throat. “Thank you… very much, Mary Sue.” He folded the note carefully and slipped it into his shirt pocket, right over his heart. Sage didn’t miss it.
Cal hugged her a little tighter against his side, his thumb still tracing lazy circles on her shoulder.
Mary Sue then crossed to Annie and handed her a simple framed photograph. Annie turned it over, and the room seemed to hold its breath. She went completely still. Sage couldn’t see the image from where she sat curled against Cal, but she watched Annie’s face shift through half a dozen emotions in the span of seconds — surprise, recognition, aching tenderness — before her lips pressed tight together and she gave one small, shaky nod, like she didn’t trust her voice.
She cleared her throat, eyes glistening. “Thank you… Mama.”
Then she turned the frame so everyone could see: a beautiful black-and-white photo of Mary Sue and Annie laughing together at the diner during a hectic dinner rush, both in their uniforms, faces lit with pure joy. Annie looked unguarded for once, and Mary Sue looked at her with open fondness and love. The engraved plate on the frame read, To my other daughter. Love, Mama.
Sage felt the tears spill before she could stop them. Isabelle was crying too. They both moved at once, gathering Annie into a tight, warm hug while she trembled between them.
Cal smiled softly from the couch, watching the moment unfold. Mary Sue caught his eye and leveled him with a playful glare that clearly said, don’t you dare say it, boy.
Cal just grinned wider, voice low and warm. “Whatever you say, Mama.”
Mary Sue moved on to the kids and Tommy next, handing out hand-knitted hats with that same quiet certainty. Each one was different, each one somehow perfect: a bright green dinosaur for Tommy that made his eyes light up, a soft purple unicorn for Lily complete with a little spiraled horn, and a bold sports design for Ethan that he immediately yanked onto his head and refused to take off, beaming with every missing tooth. The whole room dissolved into laughter as he struck a silly pose.
Then the laughter faded.
Mary Sue turned to Sage, her expression soft but unreadable. The room quieted instantly, the crackle of the fire and Brutus’s deep, rumbling snores from outside on the porch the only sounds left. Even the kids fell still as they watched. Sage felt her pulse skip as Mary Sue took a slow breath and crossed the space between them, placing a small, carefully wrapped package in her hands.
It was wrapped in simple brown paper, tied with twine and tucked with a sprig of dried lavender that still carried the faintest, comforting scent.
Sage unwrapped it slowly, the paper whispering under her fingers while every eye in the room watched with gentle curiosity.
Inside was an old scuffed wooden box, its edges worn smooth by decades of loving hands, the sides hand-painted with tiny faded blue flowers that had softened with time. Sage glanced up at Mary Sue, whose eyes were already glistening. With trembling fingers she lifted the worn lid.
A soft gasp escaped her.
Recipe cards.
Dozens of them.
Handwritten in careful, slanted script — some in Mary Sue’s familiar handwriting, others older, the ink faded and the paper fragile from years of use. The diner’s famous biscuit recipe. The perfect pie crust that never failed. The green chili that brought a line out the door every Thursday. The chocolate chip cookies that disappeared in minutes. The chicken and dumplings that felt like a hug on a plate. Page after page, each one carrying the handwriting of four generations of Ellen women.
At the very front, a single card rested on top in Mary Sue’s neat hand.
These are yours now too, baby girl. And for all the others who will come after you.
I love you very much, Mama.
Sage stared at the words until they blurred. Her hands began to tremble, and then the tears came — silent, overwhelming, spilling hot down her cheeks.
“Mama…” Her voice cracked, barely more than a whisper.
“Don’t,” Mary Sue said quickly, already fanning at her own eyes with one hand, voice thick. “Don’t you start, or I’ll start, and then we’ll both be here all day blubbering like fools.”
Sage let out a wet, helpless laugh and climbed right over Brutus’s massive, snoring head — earning a disgruntled huff from the big grizzly — to throw her arms around Mary Sue. The older woman held her tight, one strong hand rubbing slow circles on her back, and whispered something soft and private against her hair, words meant only for Sage to hear and ones that she would carry in her heart for the rest of her life.
