For more than ten years, Sundays were sacred in our house. Not because of faith. Not because of tradition. But because of pancakes, cartoons, and the simple joy of being together. Sundays meant sleeping in until Kiara climbed into our bed. It meant flour on the counter, syrup on the table, and cartoons playing too loud while Brian flipped pancakes like it was his personal stage. Sometimes, if we felt productive, we’d end the day with a Target run. Other times, we stayed in pajamas until dinner. That was our

My granddaughter Olivia is fifteen years old, but life forced her to grow up far too early. She was only eight when she lost her mother—my son’s first wife—to cancer. Not the slow kind that gives you time to prepare. The aggressive kind. The kind that storms in, steals everything, and leaves a family standing in shock, holding words they never got to say. After that, Olivia changed. She didn’t laugh as loudly anymore. She didn’t talk as much. She became quieter, more serious, like grief had added years to

Sometimes the past stays quiet — until it doesn’t. For me, it came in the form of an old envelope, dusty and forgotten, that slipped out of a shelf in my attic. I didn’t know it yet, but it would reopen a chapter of my life I thought had closed forever. I wasn’t looking for her. Not really. But every December, like clockwork, she found her way back into my thoughts. When the house dimmed by 5 p.m., and the old string lights blinked in the windows just like they