As dawn began to break on Christmas morning, a new resolve settled over me. The air seemed different, imbued with a clarity that simmered with both sadness and determination. My parents’ actions had spoken volumes, and even though the hurt was fresh and raw, there was something liberating in the decision I was about to make.
After Mark returned from his shift, we sat in our small, sun-drenched kitchen, the quiet punctuated by the distant carols from a neighbor’s radio. I poured us both coffee, letting the aroma fill the space, giving me a moment to gather my thoughts.
“Abby’s not awake yet,” I started, glancing towards the stairs, half expecting her to appear, sleepily rubbing her eyes. Mark nodded, his hands wrapped around his mug. The deep lines on his face, etched by long hours and harsh realities, seemed more pronounced. He deserved better than this. We all did.
