lived in.
Grace picked Nora up and carried her to the window.
Down below, the city flashed and moved and kept becoming itself.
For the first time in her life, the view did not feel like it belonged to somebody else.
James stepped down from the chair and asked if the star looked crooked.
Grace tilted her head, pretended to consider it, and said yes.
He laughed and climbed back up to fix it.
Nora clapped.
The tree lights reflected in the glass, but this time the reflection did not look like a trap.
It looked like a home built after the fire, by people who knew exactly how dark a room could get and chose warmth anyway.
Grace rested her cheek against her daughter’s hair and listened to the ordinary sounds around her: the rustle of tissue paper, her father muttering good-naturedly at the star, the soft radiator hum, Nora’s delighted little gasp when the light hit something shiny.
This was the family she had wanted all along.
Not perfect.
Not untouched.
Not easy.
Present.
And that, in the end, was enough.
