Chapter 9 - The First True Winter
The first heavy snow of the year arrived the week before Thanksgiving.
Unlike the bitter, biting winds of the Scioto River that I remembered from my childhood, the snow in Hocking Hills fell in thick, silent, billowing flakes that coated the pine branches in heavy white velvet.
We spent Thanksgiving day cooking a massive turkey in our newly renovated kitchen. There were no forced holiday visits, no walking on eggshells, no terrified children hiding in kitchens while adults screamed in the living room.
Just the three of us—plus Martha, Ryan’s sweet, soft-spoken mother who drove down from Cincinnati to spend the holiday with us, bringing her famous homemade pumpkin pie and a stack of board games.
After dinner, while Martha and Maisie sat on the living room rug playing a chaotic game of Candy Land, Ryan and I stood at the kitchen window watching the snow fall over the valley.
“We need to invite some neighbors over for New Year’s,” Ryan suggested, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind. “We have a big enough dining room now.”
May you like
“I’d like that,” I smiled, leaning back against him. “Real neighbors. People who bring casseroles because they want to share, not because they’re keeping score.”
We were safe. We were whole. And our home was finally filled with the kind of love that didn't demand payment.
