Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 37164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 186(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 186(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
“And the photos?” she asks gently.
“He took every single one,” the words finally landing my body as I say them out loud. “Every year since I left. Same angle. Same place. Like he was documenting proof.” My voice tightens. “So one day, if I came home, it wouldn’t feel like I missed everything.”
Lena goes quiet for a long moment. “That is…heartbreakingly beautiful.”
“It didn’t feel beautiful at first,” I admit. “It felt overwhelming, like I was discovering a version of my mom and of him that existed without me. That I didn’t know that kind of depth of kindness could even exist.”
She studies me. “And now?”
“Now it feels like he carried something for me,” my voice whimpers. “Something I didn’t even know I’d dropped.”
Lena nods slowly. “That’ll mess you right up.”
“Yeah.” I manage a small laugh. “It really does, it really has.”
“So, what happens now?”
Before I get a chance to respond my phone buzzes on the table and I glance at the time, groaning.
“I have to log on in ten.”
“Okay,” she says immediately. Then, brighter, “I can stay.”
“You don’t have to…”
“I know.” She pulls her laptop out anyway. “But I was already planning to work from here. We can sit. Be productive. Pretend we’re not emotionally exhausted women approaching thirty.”
I laugh, the sound easing something in my chest. “You came prepared.”
“Always do,” she says, clinking her latte against mine. “You survived estate paperwork, emotional whiplash, and the rude realization that the love of your life is a genuinely good man who lives far away. The least I can do is sit here with you while you pretend commas are your biggest crisis.”
I take another sip, warmth spreading where the ache was. “Deal.”
I settle at my desk and open my laptop, pulling up the document I abandoned mid-sentence before I flew out. It’s a romance novel deep in its third-act conflict, all angst and longing. The heroine is afraid of staying. Afraid of leaving. Afraid of choosing wrong.
I roll my eyes and laugh. “Of course.”
I edit for an hour or two, my fingers moving on instinct, the familiar rhythm grounding in a way I didn’t realize I needed. I cut a paragraph that’s trying too hard, soften a line that doesn’t quite trust the reader, and add space where something important needs room to breathe.
When I finally lean back, my neck aches. Lena is fast asleep on the couch, the sweetest snores.
I take a break and rummage through my bag, beginning to unpack since I haven’t even managed that yet. I carefully pull out the snow globe Erik had returned to me, holding it to my chest for a moment.
“You dangerous man, you,” I murmur to myself, setting it gently on the dining table.
That’s when I notice the notebook, in the bottom of the bag. It’s unfamiliar to me. Soft leather cover. Corners worn. My mother’s handwriting peeks out from between the pages loopy and confident and wholeheartedly hers.
I must have unpacked it without thinking.
I open it slowly.
It isn’t a journal. It’s a collection of lists, half-ideas, notes scribbled in margins. Things she noticed. Things she wanted to remember.
Rules to Live By:
Give without being seen.
Never ask why someone needs help.
One cart can change everything.
One page is titled simply:
If I ever had the time.
I swallow, tears begin to form at the corners of my eyes.
Below it, bullet points trail off unevenly.
– Coordinate deliveries so families don’t feel singled out
– Keep it anonymous, always
– Let help feel like dignity
– Don’t let it become a spectacle
– One cart can change everything
I close my eyes, and the spark hits all at once, like something clicking into place after waiting patiently to be seen.
The Christmas Kindness Drive doesn’t need to be bigger in presence. It needs to be bigger in reach.
It needs structure and systems, a story told the right way. A way for people to give without needing recognition, and a way for families to receive without ever feeling watched or measured. Something that honors the quiet dignity my mother believed in, the kind of generosity that doesn’t announce itself.
My pulse quickens as the shape of it begins to form.
I grab a pen.
On a clean page, I write:
The Christmas Kindness Drive —
Expansion Ideas
And underneath it, in my own handwriting this time:
– Digital coordination
– Donor privacy
– Neighboring towns
– Year-round support
– Keep Diane’s rules intact
I stop, pen hovering mid-word.
Diane’s rules.
The name looks right on the page, not for branding or polish, but for lineage. For the way I want to remember her, and the way I want her kindness to keep moving forward.
My phone buzzes against the desk, sharp in the quiet.
It’s Erik.
If I know you, you got off the plane, made a cup of coffee and got right to work. Just checking in, home safe? How are you feeling other than exhausted?
I smile, soft and unguarded, and type back.