27. Little Wonders #3
He nods back but it’s not as stiff as it usually is, I almost want to hug him, but I don’t. Instead, I loop my arm through Riley’s as we head toward the main dining room for second breakfast.
The table is overflowing—glazed ham, cheesy scrambled eggs, fresh fruit, toast slathered with jam, cinnamon rolls that smell like childhood. I can’t stop smiling. Everything feels warm and cozy.
“How’s work at the gallery?” Mortimer asks Riley as we sit down.
“It’s great,” she says, reaching for a slice of melon. “I’m working on commissions for Andrew’s aunt, and I scored some serious brownie points for landing the Pollocks—so they’re training me up to be an assistant curator.”
“Oh, she’s thrilled,” Andrew adds. “Now I think my mom wants some pieces too!”
“I certainly wouldn’t mind a piece for my office,” Philippa adds.
“That’s wonderful, dear,” Carole says, smiling. “I would love to see your work sometime.”
“Thanks guys. I appreciate the support.” Riley beams.
“And Elena?” Mortimer turns to me looking right at me. “Anything else lined up for the rest of the year?”
“Just some studio time. Working on a few new tracks for the next album, the tour offered much…inspiration,” I say, buttering a piece of toast.
“How’s that going?” Andrew asks.
“It’s good,” I say, and I mean it. “I feel a lot of pressure to do better, you know—after the nominations.”
“I’m sure you’ll rise to the occasion,” Philippa says, winking.
“Thanks, Pip.”
And for a second, everything feels right. I’m full in every sense—food, love, potential. I’m not waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’m just here. In this moment.
Once breakfast was done, we settle into the living area. Philippa and Andrew curl up on one end of the couch, looking blissful and well-rested. Philippa looks less green than she has in days and throws me a knowing look. I was vibrating with anticipation—they plan to share the news today.
We take turns opening presents.
Riley and I got everyone the exact same matching sweaters we were wearing—much to their chagrin.
When they finally relent and pull them on, Riley and I go absolutely feral with glee. The room erupts in laughter, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen my father laugh so freely.
Mortimer and Carole begin handing out their gifts.
Riley bounces when she opens hers—a sleek box of custom paintbrushes, each one engraved with her name in delicate gold script.
“Oh my God,” she gasps, holding one up to the light. “Thank you super rich adoptive American parents—they’re perfect.”
She hugs Carole—who smiles from ear to ear.
Philippa unwraps a Chanel bag in the softest powder blue and lets out a quiet gasp.
“I was eyeing this exact one last month,” she says, holding it up like treasure. “How did you know?”
Carole smiles sweetly at her. “A little birdie told me.” She eyes Andrew conspiratorially.
Andrew receives a classic watch—silver face, deep leather strap, minimal and masculine.
“Thank you.” He grins. “It’s a beautiful piece.”
“I know you’re a bit of a collector,” Mortimer says, leaning back in his armchair.
It makes me think of another keen watch collector, I find myself wondering what he’s doing right now before Carole brings me back to reality, passing me a small velvet box.
Inside are vintage Chanel earrings—round, elegant, edged with tiny pearls.
My fingers hover above them for a second.
It’s a little too extravagant, but my mother would’ve loved them, which makes my chest ache.
I wish she were here.
“They belonged to a friend of mine—so they’re not new,” Carole says gently. “She always said they deserved to be worn by someone radiant.”
I nod. Appreciating the gesture immensely.
Then Mortimer steps forward and hands me a book—leather-bound, the edges worn soft. A first edition of Love Poems and Others by D.H. Lawrence.
I look up at him, caught off guard.
“This is beautiful. Thank you both,” I say, voice tight.
The earrings are lovely—something I could wear to an event, be seen in and the fact she didn’t spend a dime on them meant she knew how I felt about extravagant gifts and the book...the book is me. It feels like, for once, he actually sees who I am.
Philippa and Andrew hand me their gift next—a custom leather guitar strap, black, my initials embossed in gold.
“I figured,” Philippa says with a proud little smirk, “if you’re going to break hearts on stage, you might as well look cool doing it.”
I laugh and lean over to squeeze her hand.
I give Andrew cufflinks—vintage Cartier, sharp and understated.
“Very chic,” he says, inspecting them. “These are definitely going into the rotation.”
For Philippa, I found a necklace to match the one Riley and I wear—a thin gold chain with a three hearts, one solid with her initial and the other two empty, representing us.
She bursts into tears the moment she opens the box.
We all stare.
“Are you...okay?” Riley asks, wide-eyed.
“I’m fine!” Philippa sobs, clutching the box to her chest. “It’s just, I always feel like the third wheel to you two and this, I don’t know just feels...shut up.”
Aww.
“You’re not the third wheel babe, you’re the horse that pulls our dead weight around—we wouldn’t survive without you,” Riley says, pulling her into a hug.
She sobs harder.
Oh pregnancy hormones.
Andrew and I exchange a look.
Even Mortimer looks at her dumbfounded.
For Carole, I found trinket trays from the 1920s—pastel enamel with delicate Art Deco detailing.
“Oh, these are divine,” she says, tracing the edge of one with her finger. “They’re going on my vanity immediately.”
Then I hand my father a small box.
Mortimer opens it slowly, pulling out a vintage pocket watch. Engraved on the inside: “Making up for lost time.”
He presses the watch to his chest and looks up at me. “Elena.”
The lines around his eyes soften, his blue eyes mirroring mine—glassy—and something in me splinters. The box I’ve kept buried in the back of my heart rattles, the broken little girl inside it stirs at the edge of his approval, his love.
“Do you like it?” I ask, and the question feels smaller than it should, thinner, fragile in my mouth.
“Love,” he murmurs.
And it lands—quiet, absolute.
After the presents, polite conversation, and the inevitable Christmas food-coma nap blur together.
By the time we regroup for a lighter lunch—and lighter conversation, this whole day has been wonderful, for once there’s no tension, no snide remarks—it’s a Christmas miracle.
Eventually we drift into the parlor with mulled wine and soft music, the afternoon settling over us like a warm blanket.
“Elena, would you like to play something on the piano?” Carole asks gently.
I nod.
Riley follows and settles beside me, resting her head on my shoulder as I play “Silent Night”. Soft. Slow. I start to sing.
Halfway through the second verse, Philippa starts to sob.
“Dearest, is something wrong?” Mortimer asks, his voice lined with concern.
My stomach drops.
The look on her face, the way her hands clutch her chest like she’s trying to hold something in—this isn’t just emotion. It’s joy. It’s terror. Her whole world is changing.
“Elena’s singing just—” Philippa hiccups through her tears. “It’s beautiful.”
Andrew rubs her shoulder, murmuring something low just for her.
I stop playing, not wanting to make it worse—or better. I’m not even sure anymore.
“I’m just so happy,” she manages, breath catching. “This has been the best day.”
“Aww, happy tears,” Carole says, dabbing the corner of her own eye with a napkin.
Andrew and Philippa glance at each other. That silent couple look again, full of meaning.
“We have an announcement,” Philippa says, voice wobbling.
Everyone stills.
“We’re expecting,” she says softly.
Gasps, a beat of stunned silence—and then:
I burst into laughter.
“Elena, you knew?” Riley accuses, pointing at me.
I throw my hands up, grinning. “Yeah! I’m going to be an auntie!”
“You’re both going to be aunties!” Philippa says looking at Riley as well and my heart swells to see how far they’ve come.
Riley’s eyes get misty.
Laughter bubbles around the room. Mortimer stands, crosses over to hug Philippa—gently, cautiously. Carole clasps her hands under her chin, blinking back tears. Even Andrew looks a little overwhelmed as he tugs my sister closer.
And I sit there in the middle of it all, no longer an outsider.
Just a sister. A daughter. A soon-to-be aunt.
Wrapped in ugly sweaters, music still echoing in the air, surrounded not just by people…but my family.