Chapter 13
Erik
I knew this moment would come.
I just didn’t know it would look like this, with Christmas morning light streaking through the community center windows, and Savannah standing mere feet away with my past shaking in her hands.
I thought about burning it once, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I also thought about giving it her hundreds of time. I never did. It’s the kind of truth that once it’s revealed, nothing goes back. Nothing will ever be the same again.
My mom’s hand rests lightly on my arm, grounding and apologetic all at once. She’s been carrying this longer than anyone. Even longer than me.
Savannah looks at the photo again, then up at me, confusion and recognition starting to collide behind her eyes.
I don’t step forward. If I do, I won’t stop. I know it will all come tumbling out of me.
Mrs. Kincaid busies herself at the table with Mrs. Levin, making a deliberate show of papers and lists, giving us space in the way she always has by pretending not to notice what matters most, even as she manages to keep one ear tuned to everyone’s business.
I swallow hard.
This was never about credit. It was about keeping something alive.
I keep repeating the words in my mind. I’ve been rehearsing this for years.
When Savannah left years ago, the town kept spinning. The holidays came and went, and The Christmas Kindness Drive kept returning year after year, stubborn and unmovable, exactly as it always had.
People like to think traditions survive on their own. They don’t. Someone has to choose them. Someone has to carry them when it would be easier to let go.
My mother steps closer before I can stop her, and I feel it immediately, the shift in the room, the way Savannah stiffens just a fraction.
Mom’s eyes flick to me first, quick and assessing, the way they always have when she’s checking whether I’m holding together.
Then she looks back at Savannah and reaches for her hands.
“I wanted to see you today,” even to me her voice sounds unstable. “Today felt important.”
Savannah hesitates. “You… you came for the deliveries?”
My mom nods once, a soft chuckle slipping out. “I always do, dear. Every year.”
I swallow hard. The words lodge somewhere deep inside of my stomach, pressing, insistent. Every year because of your mother. Every year because she taught us how.
The room goes quiet, heavy in that specific way grief settles when it’s shared. I stand there uselessly, hands clenched at my sides, every instinct screaming to move closer, to shield Savannah from the weight of it even though I know I can’t.
Then my mom lets go of one of her hands and reaches into her coat pocket.
My chest tightens.
I know what she’s about to do.
She pulls out the photographs, small and worn, corners softened from years of being carried, and presses them into Savannah’s palm with a certainty that makes my throat burn. This part has always been inevitable. We’ve both known it.
Savannah looks down. “It’s… photos.”
The room feels like it’s holding its breath, like everything is waiting on what happens next. I hear my mom turn toward me before I fully register the sound of my own pulse in my ears.
“Erik,” she says, gentle but firm. “I think it’s time.”
My jaw tightens. My chest feels too full, like there isn’t room for the truth and my lungs at the same time. I force a slow breath through my nose, steadying myself the way I’ve practiced for years.
“Time for what?” Savannah asks, but I can hear it in her voice. She already knows this is something big.
No one answers.
The photographs shake in her hands as she stares down at them, and I see it all at once, every year layered on top of the next.
Her mom kneeling in front of me, explaining that accepting help wasn’t weakness.
The first box we packed together. The way the drive grew because people believed in it. In her. In us.
I want to tell her everything.
I want to tell her how her mother changed the shape of my life. How I stayed because leaving felt like erasing something sacred.
I want to tell her so much, but this moment isn’t about what I need to say. It’s about what Savannah is ready to hear.