It was one of those winter evenings that look like Christmas cards from the outside—icicle lights tracing the roofline of the old mansion, candles glowing in every window, the overdecorated wreath hanging from the heavy oak front doors like a badge of generational arrogance. I stood on the front steps balancing a tray of gingerbread cookies I’d baked from scratch, feeling the humidity curl my hair even in December, listening to the muffled burst of laughter slip through the walls.
For a moment, I just stood there and watched my own reflection in the glass—thirty-four years old, dress cleaned and pressed, boots shined, tray trembling in my hands like I was the help arriving late for my shift. I told myself to breathe. This was home, I lied to myself. These were my people.
I shifted the tray to one arm, reached for the brass handle, and pushed the front door open.
Warmth and noise rushed out at me. The foyer was flooded with soft golden light, the kind you only get from chandeliers that have never once dimmed for an unpaid power bill. Somewhere deeper in the house, strings were playing something classical and forgettable. Voices overlapped in polite conversation, that careful, refined kind of laughter people use when they’re as aware of their table settings as they are of each other.
I walked inside, nudging the door shut with my hip, and the scent of pine hit me full-force—fresh garlands draped over the banister, a massive tree in the living room decked with ornaments that had never been touched by children’s hands, only by decorators wearing white gloves. Underneath the pine, I could smell the roast in the oven, the gravy simmering, the sharp liquor in expensive glasses.
And beneath all of that, faint but unmistakable, that old smell of my childhood in this house: polished wood, lemon oil, and something invisible and cold. The scent of being tolerated but never quite welcome.
I tightened my grip on the tray. My gingerbread men were lined up in perfect rows, little coats of icing still slightly soft from the drive over. I had piped each one carefully last night in my small kitchen, thinking maybe this year it would feel different. That maybe showing up with something homemade, something of myself, would count for something.
