Margaret’s handwriting covered the front.
For Eleanor, when she comes home.
Inside was a pair of knitted wool socks, a peppermint, and a Christmas card.
The message was brief.
My darling girl,
I don’t know when you’ll read this. I’ve been forgetting more things lately, and I wanted to finish your Christmas present while I still remembered how.
The socks aren’t perfect. One is a little longer than the other. Your grandfather used to say that was how you knew something had been made by hand.
I hope you’re happy, wherever life takes you. And I hope you know that you never have to earn your place in this family by being successful, useful, or extraordinary.
You were loved long before you could do anything for us.
Love always, Grandma.
Eleanor read the card beside the Christmas tree.
Her father stood quietly nearby, holding a string of lights.
After a while, she folded the card and placed it back in its envelope.
“Do you want some tea?” he asked.
“Yes, please.”
He went into the kitchen.
Eleanor pulled on the socks.
One was indeed longer than the other.
She wore them anyway.
That Christmas, there were only two people at the dining table. Daniel made roast chicken, Eleanor burned the carrots, and neither could remember where Margaret had kept the good tablecloth.
They ate without it.
After supper, Daniel brought out the blue-and-white serving dish and placed it between them.
It held sliced peaches.
Eleanor took one, then passed the dish to her father.
Outside, snow settled on the porch where Margaret had once waited for a husband who could no longer come home.
Inside, Daniel was telling his daughter a story about the first Christmas he could remember, and Eleanor, who had spent so many years hurrying toward the next important thing in her life, stayed at the table until he had finished.
