Not approval.
Something closer to permission.
One morning at a time.
Cassandra stood at the kitchen counter with Violet beside her on a stool.
When she saw me, she smiled cautiously.
“Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas.”
For the next two hours, nothing extraordinary happened.
And yet everything did.
I ate pancakes shaped like stars.
Violet eventually allowed me to hand her strawberries.
Luke explained rocket propulsion with scientific confidence and absolutely no scientific accuracy.
Daniel’s wife, Marisol, served coffee.
Cassandra laughed when Luke spilled flour down the front of my sweater.
