Colleen was having a terrible year. She kept saying she could not face Christmas morning in the house where she and Frank had spent thirty-eight of them together.
So I suggested we rent a cabin.
Nothing fancy.
A five-bedroom place in West Virginia with old furniture, a wood stove, and a kitchen barely large enough for six people, never mind eleven.
I paid for the rental.
I wanted to.
That distinction matters.
I had recently received a promotion, Neil was helping Colleen with funeral expenses, and I thought one week away might give the family something gentle to look forward to.
It worked.
We cooked together.
The nieces built a snowman with a crooked carrot nose.
Ryan burned a pan of dinner rolls.
Colleen cried when we gave her a framed photograph of Frank fishing with all the grandchildren.
On the last night, we sat around the fireplace and told stories until after midnight.
It was one of the best holidays I had ever had.
Driving home, Neil squeezed my hand and said, “You gave Mom Christmas back.”
I carried that sentence for years.
The next December, Colleen asked whether we were “doing the cabin thing again.”
I booked another one.
