Chapter 10 - Christmas on My Own Terms
December 23rd came around again.
One year exactly since the doorbell camera in Denver had captured five people, three suitcases, and a portable crib standing in the freezing corridor outside my locked door.
Today, there were no suitcases outside my door. No frantic pounding on the deadbolts. No passive-aggressive Facebook posts rippling through Douglas County garden clubs.
I was standing on the cedar deck of a modern, timber-framed cabin perched on the side of a granite ridge in Estes Park, Colorado. The air was crisp, fifteen degrees above zero, smelling of crushed pine needles, clean snow, and woodsmoke from the stone fireplace crackling inside.
Through the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, I could see the living room.
My dad was sitting in a deep leather armchair by the fire, reading a book, a mug of mulled cider steaming on the side table beside him. On the long dining table, my laptop was open, quietly displaying an automated email responder:
“Thank you for your message. Mercer Content Strategy is closed for the holiday season from December 20th through January 5th. All client projects are completed for the calendar year. We look forward to creating with you in the new year.”
Beside Dad’s chair, sitting on the plush wool rug, were Emma and Oliver.
They were seven and five now.
They weren't being used as pawns in a suburban hostage negotiation. They were here because two months ago, Stephanie had quietly reached out to me directly—not through Mom, not through Jason—and asked if I would be open to taking the kids for a weekend so she could take an extra shift at the logistics center without paying for commercial daycare.
I had agreed. On my terms.
Rule number one: Drop-off is at ten o'clock at my office, not my home. Rule number two: Pickup is at five o'clock sharp. Rule number three: Jason does not attend.
Stephanie had followed every single rule to the letter. She had dropped them off with clean clothes, packed lunches, and a quiet, sincere “Thank you, Riley.”
The kids were happy. They were coloring in large sketchbooks on the rug, Emma helping Oliver stay inside the lines of a giant snowplow truck. Sky was at home with Stephanie in Aurora, old enough now to walk, but the older two were thrilled to be in the mountains with their aunt and their grandfather.
My phone chimed in my pocket.
I pulled it out.
A notification from the automated property management portal: Rent payment received for Property #104 (Centennial): $800.00.
Underneath the automated receipt was a single text message from Mom:
“Merry Christmas, Riley. The snow is heavy down here today. I shoveled the walkway myself. I hope the mountains are beautiful. Give the kids a hug from Nana if they’re with you.”
No demands. No guilt. No assumption of entry.
I looked at the message, then typed a reply:
“Merry Christmas, Mom. The mountains are clear. I’ll make sure they get the hug.”
I hit send, slipped the phone back into my parka pocket, and walked back inside the warm cabin, sliding the heavy glass door shut behind me. The lock turned with a smooth, solid, satisfying click, sealing the warmth in and the cold world out.
“Aunt Riley!” Oliver called out, holding up a piece of construction paper covered in wild purple streaks. “Look! I made a computer just like yours! Now I can work from home too!”
Dad looked up from his book, catching my eye over his reading glasses, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face.
I laughed, kneeling down beside them on the warm rug, picking up a red crayon from the box.
“It’s a great computer, Oliver,” I told him, tapping the paper screen. “Just remember the most important rule when you’re building your business.”
May you like
Emma tilted her head, her brown eyes curious. “What rule?”
“You’re the only one who gets to decide who has the key.”