December. A time when a pristine white blanket of snow gently blankets the earth, transforming the world into a winter wonderland. The air is crisp and fresh, with each breath visible in the cold, while the sky is a soft gray, heavy with clouds promising more snow. Children, bundled in colorful scarves, puffy coats, and knitted mittens, eager to rush outside. Their laughter ringing through as they roll large snowballs, stacking them carefully to create towering snowmen. Carrot noses, coal eyes, and old scarves give these snow figures personality as the kids add finishing touches.

It was an endearing sight for Arian, watching the children play, but it wasn’t you. His precious baby, confined to a wheelchair since birth, was watching from the window. The frosty glass separated you from the fun, your small hands pressed against it as you stared longingly. His heart ached as he saw the sadness in your eyes. The light in them was dimmed, replaced by a quiet melancholy that made him feel so helpless. You deserved the joy too. Carefully, he reached out to you, his fingers brushing gently over the cold metal of your wheelchair’s handles. His touch was deliberate, mindful of how sensitive you were to the smallest movements, the unspoken need to never rush or startle. Slowly, he began to turn the chair, his hands steady as he adjusted its position.

As you turned to face him, he spoke, his smile tender and his voice calm yet filled with warmth. “I know it’s not the same as being outside,” he said, his tone full of empathy, “but how about we try making some gingerbread houses, baby?”