Tis the night before Christmas. The fire burns low, casting soft shadows across the room. One chair sits still, untouched, where Mom used to sit every year. I notice it without trying to.
I say her name quietly, not to invite sadness, but to keep her close. Tears come, but so do memories β her laugh, her warmth, the way she made Christmas feel safe and whole.
The house feels different this year. Quieter. Heavier.
This will be my first Christmas without Mom.
And yet, as the fire flickers, something familiar fills the space. Her love hasnβt left. It lives in the traditions she gave me, in the strength she showed without words, and in the way my heart still reaches for her.
Christmas is coming. It will hurt. But it will come carrying her love with it.
Stake: btcc