Epilogue
NEXT CHRISTMAS EVE
WELLS
“Daddy, you’re not hanging them straight,” Elsie announces from the hearth, hands on her hips like a tiny foreman.
I adjust the nail one more time. “I’m hanging them perfectly fine.”
“Mommy?” she calls. “He’s not.”
From the couch, Celia laughs. She’s curled up with a mug of cocoa, hair loose around her shoulders, wearing one of my oldest flannels over soft leggings. She lifts her gaze from the book in her lap and pretends to study my work.
“They’re a little crooked,” she admits, eyes dancing.
I press a hand to my heart. “Traitor.”
She grins, and it hits me the way it always does now. How lucky I am that I get to see that smile every day. That she’s here. That she stayed.
We got married over the summer, up on the ridge where you can see half the valley. It was small—just family and a few close friends. Elsie scattered wildflowers down the path and told everyone she felt like Cupid.
It fits. She kind of is.
“Come on, Daddy,” she says now, tugging the edge of my shirt. “The stockings have to be hung by the chimney with care. They need to be perfect.”
I chuckle. “Yes, ma’am.”
I straighten the last hook, making sure it’s solid in the old wood beam over the mantle. The stockings we picked out this year are lined up in a row—thick, knit pieces Celia found at the craft fair in town a few days ago.
The first one is deep green with my name stitched in white across the cuff.
The second is red, embroidered with Celia’s name. My wife. I still haven’t gotten tired of saying that in my head.
The third is smaller and bright blue, with snowflakes and Elsie’s name in loopy letters. She made sure the snowflakes were “scientifically accurate,” whatever that means for a seven-year-old who’s decided she’s going to be either a teacher, a baker, or a moose doctor.
The fourth stocking is brown with little paw prints—Bear’s stocking. He’s the mutt we adopted in September, currently sprawled under the tree, snoring like he chopped all the wood himself.
The fifth is white with tiny gray paw prints—Gigi’s. She’s the gray tabby cat who showed up at the cabin in June and decided we were hers. She’s now curled in a ball on the back of the couch behind Celia’s shoulder, tail flicking lazily.
I hang the fifth stocking and step back to admire the line.
That’s when I see it.
The sixth stocking.
It’s smaller than the rest. Soft cream, trimmed with a thin band of gold. No name stitched on the front, just a tiny embroidered star.
I frown, because I know for a fact we only bought five.
“Uh… Cee?” I ask slowly. “Where did this come from?”
She looks up from her book, eyes bright, cheeks a little flushed from the firelight. “Hmm?”
I point to the mantle. “Unless Bear’s been shopping online while we sleep, I’m pretty sure we didn’t pick that one out.”
Celia smiles, but there’s something nervous in it. Something almost shy. She sets her cocoa aside and stands, smoothing her hand down the front of her flannel as she walks over.
Elsie beams. “It’s perfect, right?”
“It is,” I say carefully. “But who’s it for?”
Elsie looks at me like I’ve missed the most obvious thing in the world. “The baby, Daddy.”
My brain stalls.
“The… baby,” I repeat.
The room shifts. The fire pops. Somewhere behind me Bear snorts in his sleep. Gigi flicks an ear.
I look at Celia, searching her face, heart pounding.
She’s watching me with tears in her eyes.
“It’s for the baby,” she says softly. “Our baby.”
For a second I can’t move. Can’t breathe. The words hang in the air between us, bright and fragile as glass.
“Celia,” I manage. “You’re… are you…?”
She nods, a shaky laugh escaping. “Yeah.”
“When… How long have you…?”
“Found out two days ago,” she says. “I wanted to tell you right away, but then I saw the stocking at the craft fair and Elsie loved it and… it felt right to tell you like this. At home. On Christmas Eve.” Her voice cracks. “I hope that’s okay.”
Okay.
Okay?
It’s like someone opened a door inside my chest and let a flood in.
I close the distance between us in three steps and pull her into my arms. She melts against me, breath hitching, hands fisting in the back of my shirt.
“You’re really pregnant?” I ask into her hair, just to be sure I’m not dreaming.
“Yes.” She laughs again, wet and disbelieving. “Really. I saw the doctor in town. Due late summer. We’re going to have a baby.”
Something hot and tight stings behind my eyes. I press my forehead to hers.
“Thank you,” I whisper, even though I don’t know who I’m thanking—her, the universe, the strange Santa who nudged her back to me last year. All of the above.
Her lower lip trembles. “You’re not… upset?”
“Upset?” I choke out a laugh. “I’m terrified. And so damn happy I’m going to explode.”
She lets out a sob that’s more joy than anything and buries her face in my neck.
Elsie throws her arms around both of us, squeezing hard enough to knock the wind out of me. “We’re gonna have a baby! I’m gonna be a big sister! I already told Santa I’d share my toys.”
“Wait, you told Santa before you told me?” I ask, pulling back enough to look at Celia in mock offense.
“It just kind of happened,” she says, sniffling, laughing, wiping at her eyes. “He asked what I wanted for Christmas.”
“And?” I prompt.
“I told him I already had what I wanted.” She shrugs, cheeks pink. “But… if he had any extra miracles lying around, maybe one more creature to love would be nice.”
My throat tightens so much I can barely speak. “Celia.”
She reaches up and cups my face in her hands. “I love our life, Wells. I love you. I love Elsie. The dog, the cat, the chaos. I didn’t think I’d ever get something like this. A family that feels like the right piece of a puzzle I didn’t know I was putting together.”
I wrap an arm around her shoulders and reel her in, tugging Elsie closer with my other hand until the three of us are pressed together in one messy hug, stockings and firelight and all.
“You’re my miracle,” I say against Celia’s hair. “You and Elsie. All of this.”
“And the baby,” Elsie says firmly, patting Celia’s stomach with great care. “Don’t forget about the baby.”
“I’ll never forget about the baby,” I promise.
Bear lifts his head, bark-whining once as if to weigh in. Gigi jumps down from the couch and winds around our legs, purring. It feels like the universe agreeing with us.
Celia laughs, wiping her cheeks again. “I guess we’ll need a crib.”
“And a car seat,” I add.
“And more toys,” Elsie says.
“And maybe a bigger cabin someday,” I say, thinking of the land behind the house, the way the ridge opens up to the valley. “Or at least another room.”
Celia leans into me. “We’ll figure it out.”
We will. We’ve been figuring it out from the beginning—through storms and blizzards and gossip and fear. Through first kisses and near-misses and the time Elsie told the entire town we were getting married before I’d even found the courage to say it out loud.
We’ll figure this out too.
“Daddy?” Elsie tugs my sleeve. “Can I put the baby’s stocking in the middle? So they’re right next to us?”
I glance at the mantle.
Six stockings now.
Six creatures to love under one roof.
“Yeah, bug,” I say, clearing my throat. “I think that’s exactly where it should go.”
She carefully rearranges them—green, red, cream, blue, brown, white—talking softly as she does, like she’s already telling the baby all our stories.
How this is where we bake cookies and sing songs.
Where we read by the fire and dance in the kitchen and get snow in our hair because the porch roof leaks.
Celia slips her hand into mine.
“I’m scared too,” she admits quietly, eyes on our daughter.
“I know,” I say. “Me too.”
“But I’m happy.”
“I know that too,” I tell her. “And I’ve got you both. Always.”
Snow taps gently against the windows. The fire pops. Somewhere in the distance, the bell at the little church in town rings the hour.
I look at my wife, my daughter, the dog, the cat, the sixth stocking hanging in the middle of the row—and for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel the urge to look over my shoulder for what might go wrong.
I just feel grateful.
So damn grateful it hurts.
“Merry Christmas, Celia,” I say.
She smiles up at me, eyes bright and full. “Merry Christmas, Wells.”
Elsie throws her arms wide, nearly shouting, “Merry Christmas, baby!”
And in our little cabin on the mountain, I know—without question—that this woman I love is the greatest gift either Elsie or I could have ever received.