Chapter 9 - The Anniversary of GraceSix months flew by with a peaceful rhythm that felt almost miraculous compared to the turbulent years of the past.
As December rolled around once again, the crisp winter air carried the familiar scent of pine and woodsmoke. Snow dusted the pine trees outside our windows, and the warm glow of fairy lights illuminated the wraparound porch of the craftsman home.
On Christmas Eve, Byron and Eleanor decided to host a small, intimate dinner party.
There were no crystal chandeliers that required hired help to polish, no elaborate guest lists designed to impress corporate rivals, and no walking on eggshells. Instead, the kitchen was filled with the sounds of jazz music playing softly from a vintage radio, the rich aroma of roasted turkey, and the sound of genuine laughter echoing down the hallway.
I stood by the kitchen island, expertly slicing a fresh homemade apple pie—the very same recipe I had baked a year ago, the one that had been discarded so carelessly in another lifetime.
Eleanor walked over, handing me a small ceramic plate. "You know, Lorna, Byron tells me you’ve baked that exact pie every Christmas since he was a little boy."
"I have," I smiled, carefully transferring a warm slice onto the plate. "Some traditions are worth keeping."
"Some traditions are sacred," a deep, familiar voice said.
I turned around to see Byron standing in the doorway. He wasn't wearing a stiff designer suit or a forced, corporate smile. He wore a comfortable flannel shirt, his sleeves rolled up, looking relaxed, grounded, and entirely at peace. He walked over, wrapped his arms around both Eleanor and me in a warm, encompassing embrace, resting his chin gently on my shoulder.
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"Merry Christmas, Mom," Byron whispered softly.
"Merry Christmas, my son," I replied, closing my eyes and feeling a profound wave of gratitude wash over my soul.
