Chapter 10 - The Evergreen Balance
December came around once more, marking the third anniversary of the day that had redefined our lives.
This time, the twenty-second of December didn't carry the weight of an anniversary. It was simply a Tuesday—a busy, chaotic, beautiful day at Vance’s Botanicals. The shop was packed with customers buying holiday centerpieces, fresh mistletoe, and potted amaryllis bulbs that were just beginning to show their thick, green tongues through the soil.
The apartment above the shop was warm. The old radiator still hissed and clanked, but it no longer felt like a threat; it felt like the heartbeat of the building. The windows were frosted, but the cold stayed outside, unable to penetrate the thick glass or the heavy curtains we had hung to keep the winter at bay.
Arthur was sitting in his favorite armchair by the Christmas tree, which was decorated with dozens of Grace’s handmade paper ornaments—delicate, watercolor drawings of ferns, pinecones, and winter birds, sealed in small glass frames. He was drinking eggnog with a heavy splash of rum, his boots off, his green-stained feet resting on a small stool.
Grace was at the kitchen table, her laptop open, her fingers flying across the keys as she finalized the inventory report for the end of the year. She was fourteen now, her face bearing a striking resemblance to my own, but without the defensive sharpness I had carried for so many years. She looked like a girl who knew exactly who she was and where she belonged.
“Mom,” she called out, looking up from the screen. “The shipping manifest for the January bulb delivery is done. Arthur says we should double the order for the snowdrops this year because they sold out so fast last winter.”
“Double it,” I said, stepping out of the kitchen with a plate of fresh ginger cookies. The smell of cinnamon and baked sugar filled the room, replacing the memory of overcooked pancakes and cold winter air forever. “We’ve got the new space in the greenhouse now. We can handle it.”
I walked over to the window and looked down at the street below. The streetlights were flickering on, casting a soft, golden glow over the snow-covered sidewalks. A few shoppers were walking past, their scarves pulled high against the wind, their arms full of packages.
My phone, sitting on the counter behind me, gave a soft chime.
May you like
I picked it up. It was a text message from a number I had recently unblocked—a number belonging to the social worker in Cleveland who was handling my nephews' foster care case.
*“Hi Jessica, just wanted to let you know that Leo and Toby’s paperwork has been processed. The holiday visitation schedule is confirmed. They’re excited to see you and Grace on
