Upstairs, Isaiah's sobbing because he's so incredibly exhausted from his day of outdoor play, and the rest of the family is going about their usual routines to get ready for bed. Lily, our 9-year-old German shorthair, is almost asleep at my feet, covered in a blanket because she was cold. My cat is on the other side of the room, in the kitchen, eating her dinner. It's quiet, except for the faint sounds of Isaiah's worn out voice. And as I look outside at the Christmas lights on our back deck—the blue ones faded to white because the sun bleached them—I feel a certain peace. It's the feeling of hope, life, and love. The feeling of Christmas. And suddenly, I am overjoyed to live in this house, with these people. To live in the knowledge that I am loved and that I have people to love. To be home.
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