The guest list came together quickly, and it didn’t include a single person who had ever made me feel like I needed to earn my place. My college roommate, Lisa, and her family would be in town. My neighbor, Mrs. Chen, a widow who’d become like a grandmother to Emma and Jake, was thrilled to be included. I invited my former co-worker, Michael, and his partner, James, who’d been kind during my divorce in a way that didn’t come with strings. My yoga instructor, Sophie, didn’t have family in town and had become a real friend, the kind who shows up with soup when your kid has the flu. Ten people who actually cared about me and my children, and the best part was, nobody needed convincing.
The menu was unreal: herb-crusted rack of lamb, the famous truffle risotto, roasted duck with cherry reduction, and desserts that belonged in a magazine. The chef brought his own servers and a sommelier. The week before Christmas, crates started showing up with ingredients I couldn’t pronounce and cheeses wrapped like gifts. My kitchen smelled like rosemary and citrus and something expensive that felt like a new chapter.
I decorated like a holiday movie, because if I was going to reclaim Christmas, I was going to do it all the way. Professional lights outside. A twelve-foot tree in the living room. Garlands on every banister. Candles everywhere. Emma and Jake were beside themselves with excitement about our “fancy Christmas party,” and every time Emma called it that, I felt something mend inside me.
Two weeks before Christmas, Jennifer called. “So, what are you guys doing this year?”
“We’re having people over,” I said simply.
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