My mother-in-law slapped me across the face at Christmas dinner.

December rolled around again with crisp morning air, twinkling storefront windows, and the familiar scent of cinnamon and pine drifting through the city streets.

It was our second Christmas since the night in Mason.

Our apartment was decorated, but not like a catalog. We had a six-foot pine tree that was slightly lopsided on one side, adorned with mismatched ornaments we’d painted together at a local pottery studio, popcorn strings made by Ellie’s sticky fingers, and a handmade paper star resting crookedly at the very top.

On Christmas Eve morning, the sun rose over Columbus in a brilliant wash of gold and pale pink.

There was no schedule. No 5:10 family photo deadline. No strict dress code.

Ellie padded into the kitchen in mismatched unicorn pajamas, dragging her favorite stuffed rabbit behind her, and asked if we could have pancakes for breakfast while sitting on the living room rug in our pajamas.

"Pancakes for breakfast in pajamas?" I gasped dramatically. "Is that even legal?"

"Yes!" Ellie shrieked with laughter, climbing into my lap.

Around noon, Frank arrived with a car full of mismatched presents, a batch of burnt-sugar cookies he’d baked himself, and a huge grin on his face. Shortly after, Paige and Scott arrived, their arms loaded with board games, wrapping paper, and loud, chaotic energy.

We didn't have eighty-four-piece china. We ate dinner off paper plates on the coffee table while playing charades so badly everyone cried from laughing.

Later that evening, after Ellie had finally fallen asleep under a mountain of blankets with her arms wrapped around a new teddy bear, I stepped out onto our apartment balcony with a mug of hot tea.

The air was cold—twenty-nine degrees, exactly like that night two years ago.

I looked up at the winter stars twinkling over the city skyline.

I didn't feel anger anymore. I didn't feel fear or bitterness or the phantom burn of a slap across my cheek.

I felt light.

Somewhere fifty miles north, in a grand, brick colonial house in Mason, Ohio, a twelve-foot tree stood perfectly lit against an empty room, surrounded by immaculate stockings, silent hallways, and a ledger sitting closed and dusty on an empty desk.

Let her keep her silence.