Chapter 9 - The Unwritten List
December arrived again, completing the circle of a long, tumultuous year.
This Christmas morning was entirely different from the last. There was no white moving truck parked in the driveway. There were no twelve giant boxes sitting on the porch.
I drove to Melissa’s North Side apartment through a gentle, scenic flurry of snow. When I walked up the stairs and opened the door, the living room didn't smell like expensive, manufactured expectations. It smelled like real gingerbread, strong coffee, and a quiet, authentic comfort.
The tree was smaller this year—a modest four-foot pine that sat on a side table—but it was covered in handmade ornaments, including a tiny cardboard moving box Tyler had artfully constructed out of packing tape and labeled: The Legend of Christmas 2025.
Dad was sitting on the small couch, a mug of coffee in his hand, and this time, he was actually drinking it. Mom was in the tiny kitchen, laughing with Melissa as they flipped pancakes together on a standard stove.
Tyler was sitting on the floor, wearing his wrestling team sweatshirt. Chloe was beside him, her collarbone completely healed, her hair tied up with the same red ribbon from the year before.
When I stepped inside, the room didn't freeze. Nobody looked past my shoulder.
"Uncle Andrew!" Chloe squealed, running over to wrap her arms around my waist.
"Merry Christmas, kiddo," I said, lifting her up briefly before setting her down.
Tyler stood up and shook my hand, a mature, firm grip that made me realize he was no longer the spoiled boy who had treated his old phone like a betrayal.
Melissa walked out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. She looked healthy. Her skin was clear, her eyes were bright, and the desperate, frantic energy that had defined her for a decade had been replaced by a quiet, resilient grace.
"Merry Christmas, Drew," she said, giving me a warm, lingering hug.
"Merry Christmas, Mel. Where's the list?" I asked with a wink. "I didn't get a text this year."
"The kids wrote a physical one," she said, gesturing to the small tree. "It's under there. Go ahead, open it."
I walked over to the tree and picked up a small, folded piece of notebook paper. I opened it. There were no model numbers for three-thousand-dollar drones. There were no requests for electronic upgrades or cash for future tattoos.
Written in Tyler and Chloe's combined handwriting was a simple list:
May you like
I looked up from the paper, my heart incredibly full. "This is a very expensive list," I said, my voice cracking slightly. "I don't know if my budget can handle item number two. Giant popcorn is a major investment."
"We'll co-sign for it," Tyler laughed, throwing an arm around his sister's shoulder.
