Jessica texted only once a month:
Mortgage paid. Screenshot attached.
Good, I replied.
No emojis. No extra words.
On December 24th, I drove back to Jessica’s house.
The neighborhood glittered with lights and inflatable snowmen and that fake, forced holiday cheer that always looks nicer from the outside. Jessica’s house was lit tastefully—white lights on the eaves, wreath on the door, lanterns lining the walkway like a magazine spread.
I sat in my car behind my mother’s sedan and breathed through the tightness in my chest.
I wasn’t coming for their approval.
I was coming for closure.
I knocked once.
The door swung open almost immediately.
Aiden stood there holding the knob. He looked smaller than he had at Thanksgiving, or maybe he just looked different because now I knew he wasn’t the problem. He was the messenger.
“Hi, Aunt Nina,” he said.
His voice was quiet. Cautious.
“Hi, Aiden,” I said, and my tone came out softer than I expected.
He stepped back. His eyes stayed on the floor.
The house smelled like cinnamon and pine. Instrumental carols drifted from somewhere. The tree glowed in the living room, ornaments arranged like someone had hired a stylist to make sure nothing clashed.
Mom called from the kitchen, “Nina! You made it.”
She came around the corner wiping her hands on a towel and hugged me too tightly, like she was trying to hold something together with her arms.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she whispered.
“So am I,” I said, surprising myself by meaning it.
Emma—three years old—peeked around the hallway corner clutching a stuffed bunny. She had Jessica’s curls, Marcus’s eyes. She stared at me solemnly like she was evaluating whether I was safe.
“Hi, munchkin,” I said, crouching. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Krimas,” she echoed, then ran off, bunny dragging behind her.
Then I saw Jessica in the dining room doorway.
Her hair was pulled back. Minimal makeup. A simple sweater and jeans. Not her usual armor.
“Nina,” she said quietly.
“Jessica,” I replied.
We looked at each other for a long moment. The years between us weren’t years of shared secrets or closeness. They were years of competition I never entered and insults I swallowed until I couldn’t.
“Thank you for coming,” she said.
“I told you I would,” I said. “You have a condition to meet.”
Her mouth tightened. She nodded once.
“Everyone’s waiting,” she said.
