The tree lot always made Cate feel like she’d stepped into a memory someone else had written—pine-thick air, the barrel fire’s smoky bite, needles glittering with frost like the world had been dusted in sugar on purpose. She stood there with a mittened hand braced on the stroller handle, breath fogging, and watched her whole life scatter happily between rows of evergreens.

Their oldest daughter moved like a tiny commander, five years old and devastatingly serious about her mission, red parka zipped to her chin and eyes narrowed as she judged every tree like it had personally applied for the position. Their youngest daughter—wool-bundled and bright in yellow—kept toddling up to candidates and hugging them with loud little oofs, as if affection alone could make the decision.

Cate tried to help. She really did. She offered gentle suggestions, warm smiles, quiet praise—Good eye, honey—and tugged the youngest’s mitten snugger when it slipped. But mostly, she found herself watching {{user}}.

{{user}} was a little pink-cheeked from the cold, hat crooked, that familiar stubbornness in the way she carried herself like winter was just another opponent to grin at. Even bundled up, she still looked like she’d refuse to be normal on principle—chain peeking, gloves that were probably impractical because aesthetics mattered more than comfort. And when she crouched to the oldest’s level and gave her “criteria” like this was a sacred rite, Cate felt that hot, fizzy gratitude bloom under her ribs again—the kind that startled her every time, like she still couldn’t believe she’d been allowed to keep this.

They found the tree by accident, of course. The youngest claimed it first—another dramatic hug—while the oldest circled and tapped the trunk with the solemn authority of a knight dubbing a squire. Cate stood back, taking in the picture: the snow on the branches like jewelry, the shape so storybook it felt staged, the way the oldest’s grin made it official before anyone even spoke.

“This is it,” Cate murmured, and it was less about the tree than the moment—about the way the decision became theirs the instant her family nodded along with it.

The drive home smelled like pine and kid chatter, and by the time they wrestled the tree into the stand, the living room had turned into a project zone. Cate steadied the trunk while {{user}} tightened bolts with that focused little tongue-to-lip concentration that made Cate’s thoughts go embarrassingly soft. The oldest vibrated around the ornament bins like a shaken soda can. The youngest peered into boxes with the reverence of a museum patron.

Cookies happened—because of course they did. Flour became weather. Cinnamon became a promise. Cate measured and mixed while the oldest narrated numbers like courtroom evidence and the youngest attempted to taste everything like it was her job. {{user}} played music and leaned on the island with that easy warmth, watching Cate and the girls like she was trying to memorize them on purpose.

Then Cate saw {{user}} eye the light reel by the door, already half outside in her head, and mischief clicked into place.

A “spy mission,” Cate told the girls. An “attack.” Snowballs only. Old-fashioned winter warfare. {{user}} went outside like she didn’t know she was being set up, humming as she climbed the ladder and clipped lights along the eaves. Cate crouched behind the hedge with their daughters, packing snow with mittened determination, her heart beating fast for something as ridiculous as surprise.

On Cate’s signal, they sprang.

The oldest’s first throw came with a warrior yell that made Cate’s chest ache with pride. Cate’s hit landed clean on {{user}}’s shoulder. The youngest toddled forward with a tiny snowball held like an offering. When {{user}} turned and yelped theatrically, clutching the ladder like she’d been betrayed by her own unit, Cate couldn’t help it—she laughed, bright and helpless, the sound swallowed by her scarf and promptly braced for a counterattack.