Chapter 1

Grace

The soft strains of "Silver Bells" drift through my small townhouse, pulling me from sleep like a gentle hand on my shoulder. I stretch beneath my worn quilt, savoring these quiet moments before the day officially begins. December sunlight filters through my bedroom curtains, casting everything in that golden morning glow that makes even my cluttered nightstand look magical.

I pad barefoot across the hardwood floors, my oversized Christmas pajamas, complete with dancing reindeer, swishing around my ankles. The living room greets me with twinkling lights from our slightly crooked Christmas tree, the one Max insisted we cut ourselves from Tommy's Tree Farm last weekend. Ornaments hang at uneven heights, mostly clustered where a six-year-old's arms could reach, but it's perfect in its imperfection.

Paper snowflakes dangle from the ceiling like frozen dreams, each one a masterpiece of Max's careful scissor work. Garland drapes across the mantle in cheerful chaos, interspersed with his handmade stars cut from construction paper and covered in enough glitter to blind a reindeer. The whole place sparkles with holiday magic and the particular brand of organized mayhem that comes with raising a creative child.

I adjust a tilting picture frame on the side table, one of Max and me from last Christmas, both grinning at the camera with matching hot chocolate mustaches. The warmth spreading through my chest has nothing to do with the central heating.

"Mom! Mom! MOOOOOM!"

The thundering of small feet on stairs announces Max's arrival before his voice does. He rockets into the kitchen like a missile with a curly bedhead, still wearing his superhero pajamas from three nights ago. His curls stick up at impossible angles, defying both gravity and my attempts at hair products.

"Can we make cookies today? The really good ones with the sprinkles that look like tiny Christmas trees? And can we make more decorations for my room? I want to cut out angels this time, but not the boring kind, the ones with superpowers who can fly really, really fast."

I flip the switch on the coffee maker, already mentally calculating how much caffeine I'll need to keep up with his energy level.

"Slow down there, Speed Racer. What's the magic word?"

"Please! Pretty please with Christmas cookies on top!"

His grin could power the entire electrical grid of Chestnut Hill. I ruffle his unruly curls, marveling at how they spring right back into place like tiny copper coils.

"Cookies sound perfect. But first, breakfast. Real breakfast, not leftover Halloween candy."

"Aw, but candy has sugar, and sugar gives me energy for cookie making."

"Nice try, but your energy levels are already at maximum capacity." I pull out the carton of eggs and the loaf of bread Mrs. Johnson brought over yesterday. "How about French toast? We can even use the good syrup."

Max climbs onto his favorite kitchen stool, the red one with the slightly wobbly leg that he refuses to let me fix. He props his chin in his hands, watching me crack eggs into a bowl with the concentration of a tiny food critic.

"Will you read me your story while we cook? The one about the dragon who's afraid of birthday parties?"

My chest tightens with that familiar push and pull, pride in his interest mixed with guilt over how little writing I've actually accomplished lately. The manuscript sits on my laptop, three chapters deep and gathering digital dust while I juggle motherhood and the increasingly urgent need to pay rent.

"Maybe after cookies. Right now, I want to hear about your dream from last night. Was it the one where you're a pirate again?"

"No! This time I was a Christmas tree farmer, but all my trees could talk, and they kept asking me to trim their branches into different shapes. One wanted to look like a giraffe, and another one wanted to be shaped like a race car."

I whisk the eggs, letting his imagination wash over me like warm honey. This is what I love most about mornings with Max. His dreams still spill into reality, untainted by the cynicism that creeps in somewhere between childhood and adult responsibilities.

"That sounds like it could be a story," I say, dipping the first piece of bread into the egg mixture. "Maybe we should write it down later."

"Can the trees talk in real life too? I bet they have lots of secrets to tell."

"Maybe they do. What do you think they'd say?"

He bounces on his stool, considering this with the seriousness of a philosopher. "Probably stuff like 'Don't step on my roots' and 'Hey, I look good in lights' and 'Please don't let dogs pee on me.'"

I snort with laughter, nearly dropping the spatula. "You might be onto something there."

The French toast sizzles in the pan, filling the kitchen with the scent of vanilla and cinnamon. Max swings his legs, humming along to the Christmas music while I flip each piece to golden perfection. These moments feel suspended in amber, ordinary and precious all at once.

"After breakfast and cookies, can we work on the story together? I have ideas about what the giraffe tree says to the other trees."

There it is again, that gentle tug between what he needs and what I should be doing. My editor expects the next chapter by Friday, and I haven't written a coherent sentence in weeks. But looking at Max's eager face, those big brown eyes bright with possibility, I know the choice isn't really a choice at all.

"Absolutely. We'll make it a collaboration."

"What's a collaboration?"

"It means we work together to make something awesome."

"Like a team?"

"Exactly like a team."

I slide the French toast onto his plate, watching him drizzle syrup with the precision of an artist. He takes his first bite and closes his eyes in pure bliss, syrup already threatening to drip onto his pajama shirt.

"Okay, finish up, and then we'll tackle those cookies. But first, you need to get dressed in clothes that can handle flour explosions."

"Can I wear my reindeer sweater? The one with the jingly bells?"

"Perfect choice for cookie making."

As he races upstairs to change, I lean against the counter and survey my kingdom of organized chaos. Dishes from last night still sit in the sink, waiting for attention I haven't had time to give. Bills stack on the counter next to grocery lists and half-finished craft projects. My laptop sits closed on the dining table, holding stories that want to be told but keep getting postponed for more immediate needs.

But then Max's laughter echoes from upstairs, and I remember why none of the rest matters as much as this. These moments of pure joy, these traditions we're building together, this little life we've created that's messy and imperfect and absolutely beautiful.

Twenty minutes later, we're elbow-deep in cookie dough, flour dusting every surface of the kitchen like edible snow. Max stands on his step stool beside me, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, completely absorbed in the task of measuring chocolate chips.

"Mom, I think we need more chips. This dough looks lonely."

"How can dough look lonely?"

"See how it's all plain and boring? The chocolate chips are like little friends that make it happy."

I dump another handful of chips into the bowl, watching his face light up with satisfaction. "Better?"

"Much better. Now it's ready for Christmas."

We work side by side, his small hands copying my movements as I show him how to roll the dough into perfect spheres. Well, mine are perfect spheres. His look more like abstract art, but he approaches each one with the focus of a master sculptor.

"Tell me again why we can't eat the cookie dough," he says, sneaking a finger toward the bowl.

"Because raw eggs can make you sick, and then you'd miss Christmas morning."

"But it tastes so good."

"That's the point. If it didn't taste good, we wouldn't be tempted to eat it before it becomes actual cookies."

He considers this logic while pressing his thumb into a ball of dough, creating what he declares is a "thumbprint cookie for giants."

"When I grow up, I'm going to invent cookie dough that's safe to eat raw."

"That sounds like a million-dollar idea."

"Really? Then I can buy you a new car. One that doesn't make that funny noise when you turn left."

My heart does that thing where it simultaneously breaks and soars. "You don't need to buy me anything, sweetheart. Having you is the best gift I could ever get."

"But I want to. And I want to buy us a house with a really big kitchen so we can make cookies for everyone in town."

The oven timer chimes, and I slide the first batch of cookies inside, setting the timer for twelve minutes. Max immediately starts work on the next batch, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration, a habit he's had since he first learned to hold a crayon.

"What kind of decorations should we make after cookies?" I ask, wiping flour from his cheek with my thumb.

"Angels! But not regular angels. Christmas ninja angels who protect Santa's workshop from cookie thieves."

"Naturally. Christmas ninja angels are clearly superior to regular angels."

"Exactly. They have invisible wings and can shoot tinsel from their fingers."

As we continue our cookie assembly line, I watch Max's animated gestures, the way his whole body gets involved in storytelling. He builds entire universes with his words, populates them with characters who exist solely in his imagination, and invites me into his world with the generosity of someone who's never learned to doubt the magic of possibility.

These are the moments I want to capture in my writing, not the grand gestures or dramatic plot twists, but the small magic of everyday love. The way flour handprints on aprons become artwork. How a six-year-old's logic can make cookie dough philosophy seem perfectly reasonable. The sound of Christmas music mixing with childish laughter to create a soundtrack for contentment.

"Mom?"

"Yeah, buddy?"

"This is my favorite day ever."

"Even though we haven't finished the cookies yet?"

"Especially because we haven't finished yet. That means there's still more fun coming."

I pause in my mixing, struck by the simple wisdom of that statement. Max lives entirely in the present moment, finding joy in the process rather than rushing toward the destination. When did I lose that ability? When did I start seeing baking cookies as time stolen from writing instead of time invested in memories?

"You're pretty smart for a six-year-old," I tell him.

"I get it from my mom. She writes stories about dragons and magic, so she must be really smart too."

The timer dings again, and I pull out the first batch of golden-brown perfection. Max claps his hands, sending a small cloud of flour into the air.

"They look perfect! Can we decorate them now?"

"Let them cool first, or the frosting will melt."

"How long is cooling time?"

"About as long as it takes us to clean up this flour explosion and maybe start on those Christmas ninja angels."