I never imagined I’d return to my childhood home, much less on Christmas Eve. For twenty years, I kept my distance—ever since my parents turned me away when I got pregnant at eighteen. Though life had dealt me pain, I built a new life with my husband, Evan, and our three wonderful kids. Still, I carried an ache for the family I left behind.
Five years ago, my parents disappeared on a hiking trip—no trace left except for their abandoned backpacks. Despite our strained history, their vanishing stirred something in me: a strange mixture of sadness and regret. Though the house became legally mine, I couldn’t bring myself to sell it. It sat empty, a silent monument to a past I tried to forget.
On this Christmas Eve, for reasons I can’t fully explain, I felt compelled to go back. I expected an empty, dusty shell—but what I found when I pulled into the driveway left me breathless. The house was alight with Christmas decorations, just as my father used to arrange them. Twinkling garlands, a wreath on the front door, candy canes along the walkway—it was like stepping back in time.
Entering, I discovered the living room transformed with a festive tree, shimmering tinsel, and stockings on the mantel. Then I saw him: a figure by the fireplace. Not my father, as I first thought, but Max, the boy who had lived next door when we were kids. He looked older and weary, but his face held the same warmth I remembered.
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