Margaret agreed to every term with quiet, humbled gratitude.

Christmas came again.

This time the air in our home smelled of pine needles, burning oak, and the sweet, burnt edges of the pancakes I’d ruined that morning. There was no mahogany table.

No crystal decanters.

At noon there was a knock. I opened the door to find Marcus holding a bottle of sparkling cider, and my mother standing nervously beside him in a plain wool coat.

There was no dramatic music. No weeping embrace. It was cautious. Fragile.