Chapter 9 - Thanksgiving Dinner for Two
The sun began to dip behind the jagged peaks of the Rocky Mountains, casting a brilliant, fiery orange glow across the snowy landscape of Colorado Springs.
Inside the kitchen, the oven hummed quietly as the turkey—which my mother had abandoned in her hasty retreat—continued to roast, filling the house with the rich, comforting scent of sage, butter, and rosemary.
Elizabeth and I sat at the dining room table.
There were no elaborate place settings, no pretentious relatives complaining about the temperature, no snide remarks about my future or my financial stability. Just two plates, two glasses of sparkling cider, and a quiet, sacred space filled with the memory of the man who had loved us both.
"He would have loved this," Elizabeth said, raising her glass of cider toward the empty chair at the head of the table where Tristan's favorite flannel shirt hung neatly draped over the back.
"He would have hated the fuss," I laughed softly, wiping a stray tear from my cheek. "He always preferred quiet dinners over family holiday drama anyway."
"True," Elizabeth smiled. "Though I have to admit, watching Gregory get zip-tied against the kitchen counter was a career highlight for me."
We both laughed—a genuine, healing sound that echoed through the high-beamed ceilings of the home Tristan had built with his own hands.
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My hand rested gently against my belly, where the baby gave a sudden, energetic kick, as if acknowledging the strength of the women who protected this house.
The outside world was cold, harsh, and unforgiving. But inside these walls, surrounded by memories that no one could ever take away, we were safe.
