Chapter Forty-Two - Christmas With the In-Laws

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Christmas With the In-Laws

IT STARTED WITH the suitcase.

The one she overpacked.
The one I pretended not to roll my eyes at.

“Babe, we’re gone three days.”

“I like options.”

I zipped it up in surrender.
Love, in December, is compromise with wrapping paper on top.

The drive was long.
The weather was trash.
I swear the GPS tried to kill us twice.

We stopped for gas, got into a dumb fight about directions, and made up halfway through a bag of peanut M&M’s like adults.

By the time we pulled into her parents’ driveway, we were holding hands again.

Barely.

Christmas at her family’s house was exactly what you’d expect.

Overcooked ham.
Underlying tension.
That one uncle who thinks “politics” is a personality.

But also?

It was magic.
Because she was home.
And that meant watching her become a kid again.

She lit up stringing popcorn for the tree.
Snuck an extra sugar cookie when no one was looking.
Told me the story (again) about the time her brother put ketchup in her stocking.

And every time I looked at her, I didn’t see just the woman I married.

I saw why I married her.

Because beneath the stress, the chaos, and the social fatigue, she had this way of making anything feel like warmth.

Even her dad’s bad jokes.

Even the room that was always a little too cold.

Even this weird, lopsided Christmas tree that leaned like it had opinions.

We slept on a pull-out couch.
Got woken up by nieces with sticky fingers.
I got grilled about job stuff.
She got guilt-tripped about not visiting enough.

But when we finally snuck away, just the two of us standing outside in the snow with hot chocolate and mistletoe we didn’t need, she looked at me and said, “Thanks for doing this.”

And I said, “Thanks for making it worth it.”

That’s love too.

Not the glittery kind.
Not the Hallmark kind.

The kind that survives gift receipts, loud dinners, and sharing one bathroom with twelve people.

The kind that holds your hand under the table when someone brings up that topic.

The kind that says, “I know this is a lot… but I’m glad you’re in it with me.”

We’ll do Christmas with my family next year.

It’ll be just as messy.
Just as loud.
Just as us.

And that’s the tradition that matters most.