It belonged to my grandparents.
It’s small, noisy, and the siding has seen better decades—but it’s paid off.
No mortgage is the reason we’re still afloat.
Two nights before Christmas, I was driving home after a late shift.
That bone-deep exhaustion had set in—the kind where your eyes sting and everything feels slightly unreal.
It was already dark.
The roads glistened with a thin skin of ice that looked harmless and felt anything but.
Soft Christmas music hummed through the radio while my brain ran through its tired checklist.
Wrap gifts.
Hide stocking stuffers.
Remember to move the stupid elf.
My girls were at my mom’s house.
They’d had hot cocoa, sugar cookies, and too many holiday movies.
In my mind, I pictured them asleep in flannel pajamas, cheeks pink, mouths slack with sleep.
Warm. Safe.
Continued on the next page
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