Lauren followed, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
For one brief second, the three of us stood almost exactly where we had been the previous year.
I noticed.
I think they did too.
Then Lauren smiled.
“Before you say anything, the pie is probably underbaked.”
I looked toward the pie.
“Do you want the long version?”
She pointed one finger at me.
“No.”
Scott laughed first.
Then I did.
Dinner was not perfect.
Lauren’s father told the same fishing story twice.
Sophie knocked over a glass of water.
At one point, I began explaining why resting meat mattered, caught Lauren raising an eyebrow, and stopped halfway through the sentence.
Later, Scott handed me a small wrapped box.
Inside was a dark blue fountain pen with my initials near the clip.
“For your next twelve pages,” he said.
I looked at him.
He immediately seemed embarrassed.
“I know you probably don’t need another company.”
“No. Probably not.”
“But you’re always writing things down.”
“Yes.”
Neither of us spoke for a moment.
Then I hugged him.
The hug did not erase the previous Christmas.
It did not erase the drive through the rain or the quiet kitchen at 8:17 that morning.
It did not need to.
Sophie called from the dining room because dessert was ready.
Scott stepped back and held the door open for me.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Do you want to explain whatever she made, or should we eat it first?”
I looked toward the kitchen, where Lauren was already laughing.
“Eat first.”
Scott smiled.
“Look at you.”
I followed him into the dining room.