Chapter 10 - A Home Built on Truth
Eight months later—one year to the day after I had driven through a snowstorm expecting an argument and finding a son—the snow was falling softly again over the Vermont hills.
The farmhouse was warm and filled with the scent of roasted pine, cinnamon, and roasting turkey. A massive, fully decorated Christmas tree stood proudly by the living room window, its multicolored lights reflecting off the snow outside.
A large white stocking hung from the brick fireplace, with SOPHIE stitched across it in blue thread. Next to it hung two new stockings: one stitched with ELI, and another stitched with DAVID & HANNAH.
Arthur Pendelton sat in the armchair by the fire, holding a glass of scotch, chatting warmly with Dr. Julian Vance, who had become a close family friend over the past year. In the kitchen, Eli was busy arguing playfully with Hannah about the proper way to make cranberry sauce, while Sophie—now a chubby, active one-year-old—was crawling happily across the rug, chasing a felt toy mouse.
I stood by the front window, holding a framed photograph that had arrived in the mail that afternoon from a local artist in Blackwood Creek. It was a beautifully restored portrait of my father, James, and Sarah Morgan, standing together near the river fourteen years ago, young and smiling, before the world pulled them apart.
I set the photograph gently on the mantelpiece, right above the stockings.
"It looks good there," Eli said, stepping out of the kitchen and standing beside me. He had grown two inches over the summer, his shoulders broadening, looking more like our father every single day.
"It belongs here," I said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "This house is full of truth now, Eli. No more secrets. No more locked files."
Hannah walked over, slipping her arm around my waist and resting her head against my shoulder. Sophie crawled over to my feet, grabbing onto my pant leg until I leaned down and lifted her up into my arms. She let out a bright, bubbling laugh, grabbing my nose with her sticky fingers.
"Merry Christmas, David," Hannah whispered, leaning up to kiss my cheek.
May you like
"Merry Christmas, Hannah," I said, kissing her forehead, holding her and our daughter close against me.
The blizzard raged outside, blowing cold against the glass, but inside the small Vermont farmhouse, surrounded by the people who had fought through the dark to find each other, there was only warmth, light, and a love that could never be broken again.
