HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS

Home for the Holidays

Imagine, if you can, a man in uniform standing on the porch of a house in a snow-covered city, with flakes swirling overhead in multiple directions. His coat, hardly warm enough, was covered with the white stuff.

Imagine that soldier turning the knob on that creaky old front door, the one that groans like it remembers every winter I left it behind. The rush of cinnamon, pine, and apple pie hit me first—a scent that wasn’t just familiar, but sacred. Home. My boots thudded against the worn wooden floor, and before I could drop my bags, Suez, rather Juge as she is known by all, appeared, flour smudged on her cheek, waving a lopsided gingerbread man at me.

“You’re late,” she teased, her smile wide enough to make me forget the years we’d been apart.

Dad followed, wearing that sweater—the lime green one with the blinking reindeer nose. He didn’t say much, just pulled me into a bear hug that said it all. “Still works,” he muttered, proudly tapping Rudolph’s blinking nose.

And then Mom—quiet, steady—stood in the doorway. She wiped her hands on her apron. Her eyes held a thousand unspoken things. “You’re here,” she whispered, and her arms around me felt like everything I didn’t know I’d been missing.

Dinner was chaos and comfort: the clink of dishes, the laughter of stories half-told through mouthfuls of turkey, and Dad sneaking extra gravy when he thought no one was watching. Juge’s cookies, predictably misshapen, still tasted heavenly. The brightly sparkling Christmas tree stood in all its timeless glory.

The ornaments were heavy with history: a glittered pinecone missing half its shine, a delicate glass angel Grandma gave us, and my crooked childhood star perched on top—still lopsided, still perfect.

As I climbed into bed that night, under the same quilt that had been on my childhood bed, I whispered a quiet “thank you” to the universe. Being home for the holidays wasn’t just about coming back to a place—it was about coming back to myself.

Imagine that—a door creaks open, and the world outside disappears. What’s left is warmth, belonging, unconditional love, and the quiet magic of home. It turns out that for the first time in a long time, I felt whole.