No adult asked where the serving spoons were.
Nobody complained about the food, the gifts, or the schedule.
That night we prepared fresh pasta, vegetables, salad and local wine.
We had dinner on the terrace while the sunset painted the sky orange and pink.
—Merry Christmas— said Paula, raising her glass.
—Merry Christmas—I replied.
For the first time in years, he meant it.
Christmas Day passed with the same serene rhythm.
We had a leisurely breakfast, took a walk along a coastal path, and had lunch at a small restaurant overlooking the sea.
My phone remained silent inside the suitcase.
In any crisis that existed at the national level, the responsibility lay with those who had created it.
They had to take care of their children.
They had to prepare their own meals.
They had to discover that family celebrations don't happen by magic.
There had always been someone who did that job.
That person was me.
The rest of the trip went smoothly.
We read, walked on the beach, collected shells, and talked for hours without stopping.
There was no pressure.
Without guilt.
There are no job openings.
On January 2nd, Paula drove me home.
Before leaving, he helped me carry my suitcase to the porch.
"Are you going to be okay?" she asked.
"I'll be better than fine."
That night the doorbell rang.
Amanda and Robert were standing together outside.
Neither of them seemed as self-assured as usual.
"We need to talk," Amanda said.
—Then we'll talk honestly—I replied. —Without blame or manipulation.
Robert glanced at me from beyond my side.
