My brother opened twelve Christmas presents while I sat beside the tree holding one small box.

Tuesday morning, December 29, 2026, the rain had cleared, leaving the streets of Columbus slick and glistening under a pale winter sun.

Dad and I drove back to the house on the cul-de-sac to collect my remaining clothes, schoolbooks, and personal belongings before heading south toward Cincinnati. Grandma June stayed behind at her bungalow to prep for her bridge club meeting, though she made Dad promise to text her the moment we hit the interstate.

When we pulled into the driveway, Brooke’s luxury SUV was conspicuously absent—she had kept her promise to be out of the house while we packed.

Inside, the living room looked like an archaeological site of a ruined holiday. The wrapping paper had been swept up, but the lingering aura of tension was still thick in the air. Wyatt’s gaming console was sitting on the entertainment center, still partially plugged in.

"Go on upstairs and pack whatever you need, Luce," Dad said, setting his keys on the entryway table. "Take your time. Take everything you want to keep."

I walked up the stairs to my lilac bedroom. It took me less twenty minutes to empty my closet and drawers into my duffel bag and a couple of cardboard boxes. As I packed my old sketchbooks, I noticed the little red box sitting on my nightstand.

Inside were the gray socks with the white snowflakes around the ankles.

I didn't throw them away. I picked them up, folded them neatly, and placed them right at the top of my duffel bag. They weren't a symbol of love, but they were a reminder of truth—a reminder of the exact moment I stopped pretending, the moment my father woke up, and the day our lives finally took a real, honest turn.

As I carried my final box down the stairs, I heard the front door open.

I froze on the landing. Had Brooke come back early?

"Dad?" I called out, stepping down into the hallway.

It wasn't Brooke. It was Wyatt.

He was standing in the entryway, wearing his winter jacket, his school backpack slung over one shoulder. He looked tired, his eyes red-rimmed as if he hadn't slept well in days.

"Hey," Wyatt muttered, looking down at his sneakers.

"Hey," I replied, setting my box down on the floor. "I thought you were at basketball practice."

"I skipped," Wyatt admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. He walked slowly toward the stairs, looking up at me with an expression of awkward vulnerability that I had rarely seen from him. "Mom’s been on the phone with her sister for hours. She’s... she’s talking about selling the house and moving to her mom’s place in Cleveland."

My breath hitched. "Cleveland?"

Wyatt nodded, his shoulders slumping. "Yeah. She says this house is 'cursed' now. But... I don't want to move to Cleveland, Lucy. All my friends are here. My soccer team is here."

Dad walked out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a paper towel. He stopped when he saw Wyatt standing at the foot of the stairs.

"Wyatt," Dad said gently.

"Dad," Wyatt said, his voice cracking slightly. He looked between my packed boxes and my father’s face. "Are you really moving out?"

Dad walked over and stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at his stepson with deep, unwavering affection. "I have to rent a place nearby for a while, bud. Your mother and I are going through a separation. But I want you to know something very clearly: my moving out does not mean I am leaving you. You are my boy, Wyatt. No matter where I live, you will always have a room with me."

Wyatt swallowed hard, fighting back tears. He took two steps up the stairs, stopping right in front of me. He reached into his backpack, pulled out a small, rectangular object wrapped in silver foil with a messy bow, and held it out toward me.

"What's this?" I asked, looking down at it.

"It’s... it’s your real Christmas present," Wyatt mumbled, his face turning bright crimson. "I bought it with my own allowance money before Christmas, but... I was scared to give it to you because Mom said we had to stick to her gift list. I hid it in my desk drawer."

My hands trembled slightly as I took the small, foil-wrapped package from his hands. I carefully peeled back the tape.

Inside was a hardcover sketchbook with thick, professional-grade watercolor paper, along with a set of metallic gel pens I had been eyeing at the art supply store downtown weeks ago.

"I know it doesn't make up for... you know, everything else," Wyatt said, staring at his shoes. "And I'm sorry I sat there opening all those boxes while you got stuck with socks. That wasn't fair."

A warm lump formed in my throat. I set the sketchbook down on top of my box, stepped forward, and wrapped my arms around Wyatt’s neck in a sudden, fierce hug.

Wyatt froze for a second out of sheer teenage awkwardness, then awkwardly patted my back.