Twenty years have passed since I left my parents’ house. I left when I was eighteen and pregnant, and I have had no contact with them since. I was determined to prove to everyone that I could build my own life, and I did just that with Evan and our three children – Eloa, Maja, and Ben. Yet, despite all my happiness, I often thought about the family I had left behind.
Five years ago, I learned that my parents had disappeared during a hike. Their disappearance was mysterious, leaving no trace or explanation. The case was never resolved, and the house became mine according to their will. I couldn’t bring myself to sell it, so the house remained empty, serving only as a reminder of the past.
But this winter, something compelled me to return. Perhaps it was nostalgia, unfinished business, or the magic of Christmas drawing me to seek answers I didn’t even know I needed.
When I arrived in front of the house, I couldn’t believe my eyes. It wasn’t the dilapidated ruin I had expected but a warm, vibrant place. It was adorned with garlands and Christmas lights, a wreath hung on the door, and candy canes lined the path. It was decorated just as my father used to, with meticulous attention to every detail.
I entered the house and found Max, the boy next door I had grown up with. His face, lit by the fire, looked familiar, but he was much older and weary. He admitted that he had been staying in the house over the winter, thinking no one would care.
Evan and I decided to renovate the house to make it a new home for Max—a place where he could start over. We used part of our savings to rebuild it and give Max a chance at a fresh start.
This Christmas, I realized that the house, once a symbol of loss, had become a place of hope and new beginnings. This gift wasn’t under the tree but in our hearts—a reminder that even after the darkest moments, there is always a chance for a brighter future.