On Christmas Eve, the weather turned from a picturesque snowfall into a full-blown Midwestern blizzard. The wind howled against the siding of my house, and the power flickered ominously.
I checked the weather app and saw that the city was getting hit even harder. I thought about Beatrix’s apartment, which was notoriously drafty and had a heater that worked only when it felt like it. Part of me felt a smug sense of “I told you so,” but that feeling was quickly replaced by a nagging worry.
My phone was silent—no “Merry Christmas” texts, no photos of kids opening presents. I felt like I had been erased from the family history just because I asked for a little bit of help with the grocery bill. I sat down with a book, determined to have a “relaxing” day, but I couldn’t focus on the words.
Around noon, there was a faint, frantic thumping at my front door. I frowned, wondering who on earth would be out in this weather. When I pulled the door open, I found Silas standing there, covered in snow and looking absolutely miserable.
He was holding a bag of half-frozen dinner rolls and looked like he’d just trekked across the tundra. “The pipes burst at Beatrix’s,” he sputtered, his teeth chattering. “And the stove died halfway through the turkey.”
I stared at him, my mouth hanging open as I saw two more cars sliding into my driveway. Out piled Julian, Beatrix, and about six others, all looking like defeated soldiers returning from a lost war. They were shivering, clutching lukewarm side dishes in Tupperware, and looking at my house like it was a lighthouse in a storm. Beatrix walked up the porch steps, her face red from the cold and, I suspect, a fair amount of embarrassment.
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