While decorating for Christmas, I discovered an old photo of my father, who’d vanished 24 years ago. Hours later, a freezing teenager showed up at my door holding a bracelet I’d made for Dad when I was six. His words, “I finally found you,” chilled me more than the December air.
I always thought Christmas Eve smelled like cinnamon and pine needles, but that night, it mostly smelled like cardboard and dust.
My hands were raw from digging through ancient moving boxes while searching for the special ornaments Mark and I had collected during our first year of marriage.
