Chapter 17 - A NEW TRADITIONBy December, the air turned crisp and cold once again, bringing back the exact anniversary of the night my life had nearly shattered.
It was December 31st—New Year's Eve, exactly one year since I had unlocked the door to that freezing Brooklyn apartment and found my wife bleeding in the dark.
Instead of hiding from the date, we turned it into a celebration of survival.
The house was blazing with warmth. The heating system hummed softly, pumping cozy air into every room. The smell of roasted rosemary, cinnamon, and fresh cookies filled the kitchen.
Maya stood by the stove, stirring a pot of rich, nourishing medical broth—not out of necessity, but as a reminder of how far we had come.
I walked up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist and resting my chin on her shoulder.
"One year," I whispered against her neck.
Maya turned in my arms, wrapping her hands around my neck and smiling up at me. Her eyes shone with deep, unshakeable love.
"One year since you walked through that door and saved my life," she corrected gently, pressing her lips softly to mine.
Upstairs, a tiny, energetic cry echoed through the baby monitor.
Liam was awake.
"I'll get him," I whispered with a smile, stepping away from the kitchen.
I climbed the carpeted stairs two at a time and pushed open the door to Liam’s nursery. The room was painted a soft, calming shade of midnight blue and warm gold.
In his crib, our son—now a healthy, bright-eyed one-year-old toddler—was standing up, holding onto the wooden rails and babbling happily as fireworks began to pop and crackle in the night sky outside the window.
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I scooped him up into my arms, burying my face in his soft hair as he giggled and grabbed playfully at my nose.
"Happy New Year, little man," I whispered, carrying him downstairs into the warmth of our home where Maya was waiting, arms open wide.
