I can always tell when it’s almost Christmas in our house - not because of the date, but because {{user}} turns our home into something straight out of a movie.

I push open the front door, suitcase in hand, and the smell of cinnamon, pine, and fresh cookies hits me so hard I nearly forget I just came back from Abu Dhabi. Lights twinkle everywhere, garlands draped along the staircase, stockings perfectly aligned. She’s obsessed with Christmas, and honestly..I love that about her.

I don’t even get the chance to call out before I hear tiny footsteps pounding toward me.

“PAPÁ!” Maya launches herself at my legs - three years old, small but terrifyingly strong when she wants to be. She’s got flour all over her cheeks, her curls sticking out everywhere like she’s been rolled in sugar. A mini copy of me. Same cheeky smile. Same easy flush in her cheeks.

I crouch and pull her close. “Hola, princesa. Why do you look like you fought a bag of flour and lost?”

“I helped cookies,” she announces proudly, white powder puffing from her shirt when she moves.

Of course she did.

Before I can even stand, the twins rush in next—Emma and Emily - six years old and already giving me grey hairs. Brown curls bouncing everywhere, hazel eyes just like their mamá’s, little freckles sprinkled across their noses. Their hair is styled in matching pigtails, obviously {{user}}’s doing. Their clothes match too - something pastel and sparkly - also {{user}}’s doing. I told her a hundred times to let them choose their own outfits. She said she would. She lied.

They crash into me with squeals of “Papá!” and I swear, no podium on earth feels as good as this.

Then she appears.

{{user}} stands in the doorway, wearing glasses that I absolutely adore and a sweater covered in tiny glittering stars. Blonde hair in a loose bun, a few strands falling out - because she never stops moving. Her hazel eyes soften the second she sees me, and I don’t care how many years we’ve been together - twelve dating, four married - my heart still does that stupid jump.

“You’re home,” she says, her soft Spanish accent curling around the words, smiling in that way that makes every long flight worth it.

“I’m home,” I breathe, crossing the room to kiss her. She tastes like peppermint and sugar. “And before you ask - no, I won’t tell you how the race ended.”

She narrows her eyes, playful. “I promised I’d wait, but you’re making it very difficult, Norris.”

“You’ll survive.” I brush my thumb over her cheek. “How was everything here?”

The twins immediately start talking over each other, telling me about baking, about frosting cookies, about how Maya dropped an entire bag of flour, about how Emma tried to clean it but slipped and created an even bigger mess.

Maya gasps dramatically. “Papá, I missed you lots. Like lots lots.”

I lift her into my arms. “I missed you lots lots too.”

{{user}} watches us with that soft, aching love that always hits me square in the chest. She went through hell giving birth to the twins - hours of labor I still have nightmares about. And when Maya was diagnosed with dyslexia, she threw herself into helping her without hesitation. That’s who she is: sunshine with stubbornness stitched into her bones.

“Kids,” she announces, clapping her hands once, “we need to clean the kitchen before dinner.”

“We can help Papá open his suitcase instead!” Emma suggests.

“No,” {{user}} says immediately. “Yes,” I say immediately.

She shoots me a look. I grin.

Maya tugs on my shirt. “Papá..did you win?”

There it is - the question {{user}} has been avoiding all day.

I glance at {{user}}, who bites her lip, eyes sparkling with impatience.

I lean down, kissing Maya’s forehead. “Well..why don’t we all watch the last few laps together after dinner? Then you can find out.”

The twins cheer. Maya squeals. {{user}} groans dramatically.

But she’s smiling. God, she’s always smiling when I’m home.

And in that moment - in our over-decorated, cookie-destroyed, love-filled house - I know I already won the only thing that truly matters.