It was a regular Tuesday in early December, just three days before Christmas. The house smelled of roasted chicken and vanilla candles—the kind I only lit during the holidays. Wrapping paper spilled from a box in the corner, and the kids were bickering in the living room over which present belonged to whom. Everything felt loud, warm, alive.

I answered without looking at the screen.
“Hey.”

I’m heading out now,” Ethan said. His voice was tired, but calm and familiar, the kind that made everything feel manageable. “I just need to stop at the store real quick. The kids won’t let the gift thing go.”

I smiled, balancing the phone between my shoulder and ear. “They’ll survive if it shows up tomorrow.”

He chuckled softly—a laugh I can still hear in my head. “You say that, but you know how they get. I promised, kind of.”

Dinner’s ready,” I reminded him. “Hot.”

“I can almost smell it,” he said. “You made that chicken I like, didn’t you?”

“The one you steal extra pieces from.”

There was a pause. Comfortable. Familiar. The kind that comes only after years of shared routines and quiet understanding.

“You sound exhausted,” I said. “Everything okay?”

am,” he replied. “Just tired. I’ll be home before they finish arguing.”

A flicker of worry passed through me. “Don’t take too long.”

“I won’t. Tell them I’m on my way.”

“I will.”

“And… thanks for waiting,” he added softly.