At Christmas dinner, my sister mocked my eight-year-old daughter because her mother wasn't around. When I defended her, Dad smashed a crystal glass against my shoulder and called me a leech. Then I reached for my phone—because there was something about the $1 million trust fund paying their bills they didn't know.

The first snow of the year arrived the second week of December, dusting the rooftops of Cambridge in a clean, powdery white that turned the streetlights into glowing orbs of amber light.

Margot was nine now, taller, sharper, and fiercely independent. She had already picked out her outfit for the neighborhood holiday party down the street—a bright red wool coat with matching mittens that she had chosen herself from the catalog at the local co-op.

As I stood by the kitchen window watching her footprints fade into the fresh snow on the lawn, the front doorbell chimed.

I opened it to find a delivery box resting on the welcome mat. Inside was a heavy, leather-bound ledger with blank pages and gold-embossed lettering on the cover: The Sterling Family Chronicles.

There was no card attached. Just the book, crisp and empty, waiting to be written.

I picked it up, closed the front door against the winter chill, and walked down the hallway into the living room where the Christmas tree was already lit, its pine branches heavy with simple wooden ornaments Margot had painted herself.

Cecilia was in the kitchen pouring cider into two mugs, while Margot sat at the dining table drawing pictures of dinosaurs wearing Santa hats.

"Who was at the door?" Cecilia asked, carrying the steaming mugs over to the table.

"Just a ledger," I said, setting the leather book down on the coffee table beside a stack of library books.

"What's it for?" Margot asked, looking up from her drawing with ink-stained fingers.

"It's for new stories," I told her, sitting down on the sofa and pulling her onto my lap as she leaned against my chest, her warm breath smelling of cinnamon and apple juice. "Stories where nobody yells, nobody breaks the glass, and everyone gets to wear whatever dress they want."

Margot smiled, resting her head against my shoulder—right over the spot where the old bruise had finally faded away—and pointed at the glowing tree in the corner.