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I just didn’t know, the last time I came home to her, that it would be the last time. I shove that thought back where it belongs—far into the past. She didn’t want us, so now she doesn’t matter.

I grab my bag from the back.

My flight landed early, and I didn’t bother having a car meet me at the airport. I drove myself. I told myself it was because it was faster. It wasn’t. I just didn’t want to wait.

Noelle is probably doing whatever she does when I’m not here, which, based on photographic evidence, involves putting decorations on every available surface and letting my son use my kitchen like an arts and crafts studio.

I walk toward the front door.

There’s a wreath on it.

Naturally.

It’s fresh, not plastic. Real cedar and holly, with a red velvet ribbon and a tiny brass bell that jingles when I put my key in the lock.

I unlock the door and stop.

The house smells different. That’s the first thing I notice.

Not the garland winding up the staircase, not the massive Christmas tree in the great room, not the red pillows on the couch or the miniature Christmas village that has somehow expanded to consume most of the entry table.

It smells like cinnamon and something baking and home. The thought comes so quickly I almost don’t catch it. When I do, it hits me square in the chest. I used to come home to a house that smelled like nothing. Lemon polish. Whatever candle the housekeeper lit on Tuesdays. A dark kitchen and a note from Dottie on the counter about leftovers in the fridge.

I step inside and close the door behind me. My suitcase wheels bump against the hardwood.

There are shoes scattered beside the entry bench. Tiny sneakers. Green dinosaur rain boots. A pair of women’s boots I don’t recognize. Brown suede and scuffed at the toes. One has fallen over onto its side, as if she kicked them off in a hurry.

The last time there were women’s shoes by this door, they were expensive and lined up in a neat row, and one day they were just gone. All of them. I came home and the space where they’d been was so clean it looked like they’d never existed.

I look at those scuffed brown boots for longer than I should.

I leave my bag there.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

Then I hear music. Christmas music, of course.

It’s coming from the kitchen.

So is laughter. My son’s laughter. I go still. Shiloh.

He laughs again, high and bright and completely uninhibited. Something squeezes inside my chest. Fuck, I’ve missed him.

I’ve heard him laugh over the phone, and in videos I was sent. But that is not the same as hearing it here. It’s like seeing color for the first time.

Over the phone, his laugh comes through tinny and small, squeezed down to fit through a speaker. This one fills the whole house. It bounces down the hallway and off the stone and the high ceilings.

It sounds like it’s been here the whole time, just waiting for someone to let it out.

I walk toward the sound. The music gets louder. So does Shiloh.

“No! You cheated,” he squeals.

“I did not cheat.”

“You did!”