Christmas Eve arrived with a sky the color of old pearls and the kind of cold that made the snow crunch underfoot. The house on Maple Lane glowed from within — string lights on the porch, the tree lit in the living room window, and the smell of cinnamon and pine drifting through every room. Elias and I had spent the morning finishing small tasks: wrapping the last few gifts, setting the table for four, and making sure Amina’s favorite mug was clean and waiting on the counter.
She had been home for three days now. The visit was quieter than the one at Thanksgiving, but in a way that felt intentional rather than strained. Amina had spent long stretches reading on the porch swing wrapped in blankets, or walking into town alone. She joined us for meals and conversations, but she also took spa
