Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
MYA
T he hospital smells like peppermint disinfectant and hope. The kind that wraps itself around your shoulders like a borrowed coat—too big, slightly scratchy, but warm all the same. It’s Christmas, and the halls are strung with tinsel and soft-spoken joy. Nurses wear reindeer headbands and pass out candy canes with sleepy smiles. Somewhere down the corridor, a low rendition of Silent Night hums from the chapel speakers like a prayer disguised as a lullaby.
Fletch walks beside me, close enough that his arm brushes mine with every step. He’s holding the gift bag we picked out together, filled with tiny knitted hats, two ridiculously soft Christmas onesies, and the card Reese made that says “To the littlest legends in the NICU.”
“I told her you’d cry if she sent another matching set,” he murmurs, lips twitching.
“She’s lucky I’m hormonal and forgiving,” I mutter back, fighting a smile as we turn the last corner.
The NICU is quieter than usual, but it’s a joyful kind of quiet. Reverent. Revered. Like even the ventilators and IV pumps know what day it is. Like everyone in this ward is holding their breath and their hearts in the same trembling hands.
Our boys are still tucked in their incubators, swaddled in more wires than I like to see, but looking stronger. Looking more like themselves. Tiny, perfect, fighting.
Kingston stirs first.
Kody kicks second.
And just like that, Christmas makes sense.
* * *
By the time we pull up to the ranch, the sun is already making its lazy descent behind the hills, casting everything in amber and hush. But it’s not the golden hour that makes me go still in the passenger seat.
It’s the black car in the driveway.
Not Reese’s. Not Thorin’s beat-up Chevy. This one’s too polished, too pristine, too out-of-place on a gravel driveway where the only dust-free thing is the sky after rain.
Fletch cuts the engine. “You expecting someone?”
I shake my head slowly. “You?”
“Nope.”
His knuckles tighten around the wheel, the kind of tension that thrums through the car like static before a lightning strike. We both know what this might mean, even if we don’t say it
I brace myself as we head up the porch steps. The screen door creaks open, letting out the scent of cinnamon and wood polish and something warmer—like family, like memory, like something I thought I’d lost for good.
But what hits me harder than the scent is the sight.
There, in the kitchen like it’s the most natural thing in the world, stand my parents.
Dad’s still in his worn Patriots hoodie, face a little more weathered than I remember but his eyes the same soft brown that always made my chaos feel less loud. He’s holding a coffee mug, nodding at something Thorin says while Reese bounces Eli on her hip.
And beside him—like some kind of impossible mirage—is her.
My mother.
The woman who gave me life and then spent the rest of it making me wish I’d come out screaming louder.
She looks…different. Not younger, not softer, but like someone carrying something too heavy for too long. Her hair’s pulled into a tight braid like always, but her posture isn’t all sharp lines and judgment this time. It’s curved. Like something inside her finally cracked.
I stop just inside the door, hand still gripping the knob like it might save me from myself.
Dad looks up first.
“Hey, baby,” he says, and just like that I’m ten again and running out onto the field after his game, heart full and hands outstretched.
I walk straight into his arms and let him fold me into that safe, quiet space he always kept open for me, no matter how far I wandered. He kisses my forehead like he did the day I woke up in the hospital. Like I didn’t just wake up from a coma but from a decade of keeping people out.
“Glad you’re home,” he murmurs.
I nod, throat tight. “Me too.”
When I pull back, I brace myself for the hard part. The part I haven’t prepared for.
And yet—when I turn to my mom, she doesn’t look at me like she’s here to pick another fight. She doesn’t cross her arms or narrow her eyes or say something backhanded with a smile sharp enough to slice bone.
She hugs me.
Not stiffly. Not because someone’s watching. But like she means it.
Her arms wrap around me and for a second I forget how to breathe. The world narrows to her perfume—still the same gardenia and guilt—but mixed with something unfamiliar.
Grief.
Regret.
Maybe even…love?
And then—God help me—her shoulders tremble.
When she pulls back, there are tears in her eyes.
Not the performative kind. Not crocodile. Real.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, voice warbling like she’s barely holding it together. “For everything. For not showing up. For making you feel like you had to do this alone.”
And just like that, I’m unmoored.
No one says anything. Not Fletch. Not Reese. Not Thorin. Not even Eli, who just coos softly in the background like he knows we’re standing in the eye of a storm that’s finally passed.
I nod once, because it’s all I can do.
And maybe, just maybe, for the first time in a long time, I believe her.
The warmth of the kitchen is a strange contrast to the cold war that used to live between me and my mother. And maybe it still does. But for now, it’s quiet—like the kind of silence that comes after a storm, when everything’s damp and tentative and waiting to see what breaks first.
I’m still standing there, shell-shocked and tangled in a thousand old emotions, when Reese gently threads her fingers through mine and tugs me down the hall like she’s leading a ghost back to the land of the living.
We step into the mudroom, the only place in the house not smelling like cinnamon, roast chicken, or pine. Here it just smells like winter—wood, wool, and the faintest whiff of horse. Reese closes the door behind us, eyes soft, mouth tilted in that nervous smile she only ever uses when she’s about to say something risky. Or potentially stupid.
“I wanted to surprise you,” she says carefully. “I didn’t know if it was the right call, but your dad’s been texting with me since Thanksgiving, and when he said they’d both be in town…” She shrugs, suddenly unsure. “It just felt like maybe it was time.”
I stare at her. My mind still catching up with the image of Maria hugging me like we weren’t made of barbed wire and bruised history.
“You okay?” she asks gently. “Because if it’s not—I can make something up. Say they need to leave early or?—”
“No,” I interrupt, voice hoarse and heart hammering. “No, it’s… a little weird with my mom, yeah. But—” My voice dips, emotion thick behind my ribs. “I’m grateful. To have them here. Especially today.”
Reese’s shoulders drop like she’s been holding her breath. “Okay. Good. Because your mom brought tamales. And if you think I’m letting her leave before I get the recipe, you’re sorely mistaken.”
I huff out a laugh and hug her tightly, burying my face into the only safe harbor I’ve ever had in this town.
And that’s when the door slams open.
“It’s beginning to look a lot like chaos,” Benji sings in falsetto, marching in with a paper bag in one hand and Carson’s arm hooked in the other.
“Did someone order a pair of dysfunctional Christmas elves?” Carson asks, grinning like he’s just stepped off the cover of a GQ holiday edition. He’s wearing a red scarf, a reindeer sweater, and way too much cologne.
The hallway erupts in motion. Voices. Footsteps. The low buzz of music kicks on in the background—Frank Sinatra crooning from the kitchen speakers. It’s like the whole ranch takes a deep inhale and then lets it out in color and noise.
Thorin greets the guys with a bear hug and a loud, “You’re late. And don’t lie—we already know you stopped for lattes.”
“Guilty,” Benji replies, offering up a tray of peppermint mochas like a peace treaty. “One for every morally unbalanced adult in the room.”
Carson’s already clapping his hands. “All right, Chef Decker. Let’s see if you can make a turkey that doesn’t taste like last year’s playoff loss.”
“Funny,” Thorin mutters, tossing a dish towel over his shoulder as he hands Benji an apron.
The kitchen turns into a dance floor of culinary chaos. Pots clinking. Timers beeping. Benji swearing in Spanish. Eli squealing with delight as my dad lifts him high into the air, then bounces him on one knee with all the clumsy joy of a man who still remembers how to play pretend.
Even my mother, usually a spectator to anything messy, is on the floor with him now, holding out a wooden spoon for him to bang on a pot like it’s a snare drum.
And me?
I’m standing in the middle of it all, half-terrified it’ll shatter and half-afraid it won’t.
Fletch’s hand finds mine. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t speak. Just laces our fingers together and tugs me close until my shoulder’s tucked against his chest.
I tilt my head, looking up at him, and he smiles. Soft. Crooked. The kind of smile that doesn’t need mistletoe or metaphors to mean something.
“You okay?” he asks.
My chest tightens with something that feels suspiciously like peace.
“Yeah,” I murmur, eyes flicking to the stove where Benji’s attempting to flambé mashed potatoes, “I think I am.”
The table is alive with chatter, the clink of cutlery against china blending with the low thrum of laughter, and for once, I don’t feel like an outsider looking in.
I’m part of this.
Elbows brush. Shoulders bump. Fletch’s thigh is warm against mine beneath the table, a quiet constant I’m almost afraid to acknowledge. Because if I do, if I lean in too far or breathe too deep, I might forget that we’re still figuring out how to exist in this strange new rhythm where I’m no longer just the girl in the coma—but the girl who came back to him.
Reese passes the bread to her dad. Thorin’s pouring more wine. Benji’s recounting something absurd from a hotel room in London involving a flooded shower and too many pastries. And me? I’m soaking it all in, like I’m afraid if I blink too long it might dissolve into a dream.
I smile at something Carson says and press my fork into a piece of roast potato that’s crispy on the outside and buttery soft in the middle. I’m halfway to taking a bite when my dad pushes back his chair and clears his throat. The room quiets just enough to feel it. That subtle shift in the air, like everyone knows something’s coming.
He disappears into the living room and returns a moment later with a white and navy gift bag.
“For the boys,” he says, setting it down in front of me. “I know they’re not home yet. But they will be.”
I blink, hard.
Fletch stills beside me, hand tightening on the edge of his plate.
My fingers tremble as I reach inside and lift out two tiny onesies. Navy with red accents. The unmistakable New England Patriots logo front and center.
I burst into tears.
Like—actual, undignified, nose-prickling, eye-stinging, chest-heaving sobs.
The whole room stills again, but not in the uncomfortable way. No one flinches. No one makes it weird. I think they’ve all just come to expect that I cry at the drop of a hat now—over coffee, over cribs, over the way Fletch kisses my forehead when he thinks I’m asleep.
“Oh my god,” I laugh wetly, dabbing at my eyes with the napkin Reese passes down the table. “I hate that I’m this person now.”
“You’re a mom now,” Reese says softly, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. “You’re allowed to cry about little football jerseys. It’s basically a rite of passage.”
Fletch leans in, his shoulder brushing mine. “You’re also allowed to be completely obsessed with them,” he murmurs. “Because I’m already picturing them in these, and it’s not fair how cute it’s going to be.”
My throat tightens. “We’re gonna be those parents, huh?”
He grins. “Full-on embarrassing. Matching hats. Foam fingers. The works.”
I laugh again, watery and overwhelmed, and maybe just a little in love with how he looks at me when I cry like this. Like it doesn’t scare him. Like he’s just grateful to be close enough to catch the tears.
Around us, conversation resumes. Plates are passed. Eli babbles from his high chair and Maggie chuckles as she wipes mashed sweet potato from his cheeks. Reese leans her head on Thorin’s shoulder, the picture of peace. And somehow, I stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. Just for tonight.
Because maybe this is what healing feels like—surrounded by people who stayed. Who showed up. Who made room at the table and didn’t ask for anything in return.
The house quiets in waves.
The way the tide pulls back slowly, tugging at the edges, leaving behind soft footprints and full hearts.
The kitchen smells like cinnamon and wine and the kind of warmth that lingers long after the candles are blown out. Dishes are stacked in the sink. Someone—probably Carson—started singing a Mariah Carey Christmas song off-key before Benji tackled him into the couch and declared a ceasefire in the name of holiday spirit.
Fletch brushes a kiss to the side of my head and murmurs something about checking on the twins’ video monitor in the guest room. His hand lingers at my back like he doesn’t really want to go, but knows I need this. Time. Space. A different kind of courage.
The kind that lets me face my parents without armor.
Reese catches my eye from the archway and nods toward the hallway. “They’re all set up in the Magnolia room,” she says softly. “Thought maybe you’d want…a minute.”
A minute. A year. A lifetime I never got.
I swallow the knot in my throat and nod.
I find them in the guest room that smells like fresh linen and memories I can’t quite name. My mom’s seated on the edge of the bed, fingers stilling around the frame of a photo that Reese must’ve snuck in here—one of me and my dad at one of his post-game celebrations. I’m six in the photo. Wearing a red hoodie three sizes too big, chocolate ice cream smeared across my cheek, and the biggest smile I’ve ever worn.
“Hey,” I say quietly, hovering near the door.
My dad looks up from where he’s setting down their suitcase. “Hey, baby.”
“Room okay?”
“It’s perfect,” my mom says.
It’s strange hearing her voice now that it’s no longer barbed with judgment or stiff with distance. It’s still precise, still clipped around the vowels, but there’s something softer in it tonight. Something a little unraveled.
“Reese did all this?” she asks.
I nod. “Yeah. She wanted you to be comfortable.”
“She always was thoughtful.”
There’s a silence that follows—not awkward, just…ripe.
Like an unspoken moment waiting to bloom.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” I admit, stepping farther into the room. The air feels different here—thicker, heavier, filled with ghosts and grace and everything in between.
“We weren’t either,” my mom says honestly, standing now. “But then your dad looked at me and said, ‘It’s Christmas. And our daughter’s alive.’” She looks down. “And I guess for once, I didn’t have a good enough excuse not to show up.”
The ache in my chest is slow and searing. “I’m glad you did.”
She exhales shakily. “So am I.”
And just like that, the walls between us shift—not crumbling entirely, but cracking just enough to let the light in.
We spend the next half-hour sitting on the edge of the bed, talking. Nothing earth-shattering. Nothing groundbreaking. Just…talking.
My dad tells a story about the time I used to line up all my stuffed animals in front of the TV so they could watch Blue’s Clues. My mom confesses she used to check my Instagram every morning when I stopped returning her calls, just to make sure I was still smiling.
And me?
I listen.
I let the words fill in the gaps we’ve left behind.
Eventually, Reese peeks her head in and gives me the softest smile. “Everything good in here?”
I nod.
And for once, I mean it.