“The bins made it out this year.” “I couldn’t open them,” she admits. “Just sat there and stared at them. But … it’s a step, right? Even if it’s a small one?” “It’s a step, Mom.” As we stand there in the silence of the kitchen, holding onto each other while the Christmas music drifts all around us, I make her the only promise I know how to make. “If I find something like you and Dad had, the last thing I’ll do is let it get away from me.”
