While decorating for Christmas, I discovered an old photo of my father, who’d vanished 24 years ago. Hours later, a freezing teenager showed up at my door holding a bracelet I’d made for Dad when I was six. His words, “I finally found you,” chilled me more than the December air.
My hands were raw from digging through ancient moving boxes while searching for the special ornaments Mark and I had collected during our first year of marriage.
The basement’s dim lighting cast long shadows across the concrete floor, making the stacks of boxes look like city skyscrapers in miniature.
“Mommy, can I put the star on top?” Katie called down the stairs. At five, everything was magic to her, especially Christmas. She’d been vibrating with excitement since Thanksgiving, counting down the days on her paper chain with religious devotion.
