My name is Laura Méndez, and my life changed completely when I was eight months pregnant. We lived in Valencia, in a quiet, sunlit neighborhood where all the houses looked alike, and neighbors waved politely from their gardens. Our home had belonged to my husband Javier’s family for generations. It smelled of polished wood, echoed with the tick of the old hallway clock, and the walls were lined with faded photos of weddings, birthdays, and celebrations long past. To Javier, it was a house full of love and memories. To

Christmas has always meant one thing to me: family. That’s why, for the last four years, my husband Ethan, our seven-year-old daughter Maddie, our five-year-old son Noah, and I had created a tradition just for us. Every Christmas, we escaped to the islands. No schedules. No crowded dinners. No pressure. Just the four of us, sunshine on our skin, salt in our hair, and time to breathe before the chaos of holiday visits and obligations began. This year was supposed to be exactly the same. But it wasn’t. When we