As the evening wore on, the smell of roasting meat and herbs finally filled the air. It wasn’t the perfect meal I usually prepared—the gravy was a bit lumpy and the carrots were slightly burnt—but when we all sat down at that long table, something felt different. Silas stood up and raised a glass, but he didn’t toast to the “holiday spirit.” He looked directly at me and said, “Arthur, we were jerks. We thought this house was the magic, but it was actually the work you put in.”
That was the first twist—the realization that they didn’t just need my house; they finally understood the value of the effort. But the second twist came after dinner when we were all sitting around the fire. Beatrix pulled out a small, wrapped envelope and handed it to me. “We didn’t just come here because the pipes burst,” she admitted, looking down at her hands. “We were actually on our way here anyway to apologize, but we were too proud to call and say we were coming.”
The envelope didn’t just contain the $700 I’d spent the previous year; it contained nearly $2,000. They had all chipped in extra to start a “Holiday Fund” so that I would never have to pay for a family meal again.
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