“Merry Christmas,” Paula said, raising her glass.
“Merry Christmas,” I answered.
For the first time in years, I meant it.
Christmas Day followed the same gentle rhythm.
We ate breakfast slowly, walked a coastal trail, and had lunch at a small restaurant overlooking the water.
My phone remained silent inside my suitcase.
Whatever crisis existed at home belonged to the people who had created it.
They had to care for their own children.
They had to prepare their own meals.
They had to discover that family celebrations did not happen magically.
Someone had always been doing the work.
That someone had been me.
The rest of our trip passed peacefully.
We read, walked on the beach, collected shells, and talked for hours without interruption.
There was no pressure.
No guilt.
No list of duties.
On January 2, Paula drove me home.
Before leaving, she helped carry my suitcase to the porch.
