Epilogue
SOPHIE
The Christmas Eve chaos in the Pearson home floods every sense—pine needles and cinnamon, Hazel’s shrieking laughter mixing with the oven timer’s insistent beep, and somewhere under it all, my dad’s patient voice explaining the philosophical merits of static Christmas lights.
I press my back against the doorway, cradling a mug that started as hot chocolate but has devolved into a whipped cream delivery system, and watch Mike engage my father in what might be the most passionate debate about decorative lighting in human history.
“Static lights are classic,” my dad insists, wielding a half-eaten sugar cookie for emphasis. “They’re elegant. Timeless.”
“Boring,” Mike counters, dark eyes bright with that particular mischief I love. “Blinking lights add movement. Energy. They’re festive.”
“They’re seizure-inducing.”
“They’re joyful.”
“They’re tacky.”
“You’re tacky.”
My dad gasps, clutching his cookie to his chest in mock offense, and a laugh erupts from somewhere deep in my chest—unguarded, unfiltered, completely free.
Six months ago, I would have been calculating the exact emotional temperature of this exchange, ready to deploy strategic subject changes and careful redirects. Now I just sip my sugar-disguised-as-beverage and marvel at how Mike fits into my family’s particular brand of controlled chaos.
The warmth spreading through my chest has nothing to do with the drink and everything to do with watching my boyfriend and my father argue like they’ve been doing this for decades. Like this is totally normal. Like this is totally forever.
From the kitchen, my mom’s voice rises. “No, sweetheart, the green ones go on the tree cookies. The red ones are for the Santa cookies. We have a system!”
“But what if Santa wants a green hat?” Hazel’s eight-year-old logic carries that tone that suggests the entire adult world has failed to grasp the obvious.
“Then Santa needs to submit a formal request through proper channels,” Mike calls out, abandoning his light debate to wink at me. “I’ll draft the paperwork.”
“You’re not helping!” my mom shouts back, but her voice carries that exact shade of fond exasperation she usually reserves for family.
Family.
The word lodges somewhere under my ribs, warm and terrifying.
The doorbell’s chime saves me from that particular spiral.
I set down my mug, but Mike’s already moving.
His hand grazes my lower back as he passes—such a simple touch, barely there, but my skin lights up anyway.
After all these months, the smallest contact from him still short-circuits my nervous system.
“Andy!” Mike’s whole face transforms as he yanks open the door, and suddenly our entryway fills with December air and excited voices.
Andy launches herself at her brother with the dedication of someone who’s been saving up hugs since she left for Paris a week ago, while Declan hovers behind her looking the successful artist—carefully disheveled hair, paint under his fingernails, slightly unhinged look in his eye.
“Jesus, Dec, you look like you haven’t slept since October,” Mike says, pulling him into a one-armed hug while Andy clings to his other side.
“Time zones are a construct,” Declan replies with an exhausted grin. “Also, I had a commission due yesterday.”
“Which he finished at the airport,” Andy adds, detaching from Mike long enough to roll her eyes. “You should have seen the TSA agent’s face...”
“I said the oil paint was for emotional support,” Declan deadpans. “She didn’t find that as funny as I did.”
They tumble into the living room in a chaos of scarves and scattered conversation about Paris, about art, about the way six months can feel like six minutes and six years simultaneously. Andy glows with the kind of happiness that comes from loving someone across an ocean and having it work anyway.
I watch them and feel that peculiar ache that’s equal parts joy and terror.
Mike materializes at my elbow, talking low enough that only I can hear. “Your worry face is showing.”
“I don’t have a worry face,” I lie, badly.
His thumb finds the inside of my wrist, tracing circles that make thinking unnecessarily difficult. “June’s not for months. And even then?—“
“I know.” And I do know. We’ve dissected this topic from every possible angle—the draft, the cities that might claim him, the logistics of love across distances—but watching Andy and Declan navigate their separation with such grace makes June feel immediate, inevitable.
The doorbell saves me again—apparently, it’s my night for convenient interruptions.
“Ho ho ho!” Maine fills the doorway, clutching a bottle of wine that definitely came from the gas station and a package wrapped in what appears to be a newspaper comics section. “Where’s my favorite coach who definitely won’t make me do extra sprints for showing up buzzed?”
“You’re not late,” I tell him, stepping aside. “And you know my dad stopped caring about your language the day you scored that hat trick against BU.”
“Still.” Maine shrugs out of his coat, and I catch the duct tape holding the zipper together at the bottom, the way the lining’s started to separate at the shoulder seam. “Better to arrive bearing gifts. Even terrible ones. This wine might technically be classified as a biohazard.”
He bounds into the living room with his signature golden retriever energy, but there’s something tight around his eyes, a brightness that’s turned up half a notch too high. Mike mentioned the roommate situation last week—rent that’s suddenly doubled, the lack of cash...
“Maine!” My mom’s voice carries from the kitchen. “Thank God. I need someone with actual artistic vision to help with Santa icing. Hazel’s turned all the red Santa hats into something from a horror movie.”
“They’re not horror movie Santas!” Hazel protests. “They’re just… tired Santas.”
“Exhausted from late-stage capitalism,” Maine agrees solemnly, already heading for the kitchen. “I deeply respect the artistic commentary. Let me show you how to make the blood spatter more realistic.”
“MAINE.”
“I meant frosting! Red frosting spatter!”
The house fills with the kind of comfortable chaos that comes from too many people in too small a space, all of them exactly where they want to be.
I find myself in the kitchen at some point, transferring cookies to cooling racks while my mom directs traffic from her perch on the stool at the island.
She hasn’t been standing much lately. The observation hits cold and sharp.
The relapse last month was minor, her neurologist assured us with the kind of practiced calm that made me want to shake him. Just some medication adjustments, extra rest, she’d be fine.
And she is fine, technically.
But I catalog the way she grips the counter when she thinks no one’s looking, the way she’s delegating tasks she would have done herself six months ago, the way her hands stay cold now. I can feel it even from here, that persistent chill no amount of heating can touch.
I walk over to her. “Mom…”
“I’m OK,” she says simply. “I promise.”
“Mom—“
“I know you’re worried and you’re going to tell me to take it easy, but I don’t want to. Because do you know what I see when I look around this kitchen?” She doesn’t wait for my answer or my worry. “I see my family, bigger and louder and more chaotic than it was last Christmas.”
I sigh. “I know, but?—“
She doesn’t let me finish. “I see Hazel learning how to pipe murder scenes onto gingerbread from a hockey player who can’t afford to fly home.
I see your father actually laughing at your boyfriend’s terrible jokes.
I see you, my darling girl, finally letting someone else hold some of the weight you’ve been carrying alone. ”
My throat closes up. “Mom, please?—“
“That’s worth every bad day, Sophie.” Her cold fingers find mine, squeezing with more strength than I expected. “Every single one.”
The moment stretches between us, heavy with all the things we don’t need to say. I’m wiping tears from laughing when Mike catches my eye across the kitchen. He tilts his head toward the back door—a question, an invitation, a promise of a moment of quiet in the middle of chaos.
I grab his coat from the hook and follow him onto the porch.
The cold hits sharp enough to steal my breath.
Snow falls in thick, lazy flakes that muffle sound until it feels like we’ve stepped into another world entirely.
Mike pulls me back against his chest before I can shiver, his arms coming around me with the easy familiarity of someone who knows exactly how I fit against him.
“Your family’s certifiably insane,” he says, and I feel his smile pressed against my hair.
“You’re just figuring this out now?”
“No, I’ve known for a while.” His arms tighten, pulling me impossibly closer. “I love it. I love them.” A pause, his breath warm against my ear. “I love you.”
We stand there watching the snow erase the world beyond our porch, the muffled sounds of laughter floating from the kitchen. Perfect. Terrifying. Ending. My mom is getting sicker, the draft is getting closer, and I’m graduating in six months. Soon, all this will change.
“Hey.” He turns me in his arms, hands coming up to frame my face. His dark eyes are serious in the porch light. “I need to give you something.”
My heart stutters, then races. His hand moves to his pocket and for one wild, impossible second I think?—
He pulls out a key. Simple. Silver. Unremarkable except for how my entire world reorganizes around its presence.
“I’m not proposing,” he says, and there’s a wry twist to his mouth that doesn’t quite hide his nervousness. “We’re not there yet. But this—“ He presses the key into my palm, closing my fingers around metal that’s already warming from his touch. “This is a promise.”
“Mike—“