I’m gathering enough courage to ask the hard question—What did last night mean to you?—when an explosion of Christmas bells from one of Mom’s favorite old songs invades the relative quiet of the morning.

My mother’s shouting quickly follows. “Come on, kids, time to get up! The buns are just out of the oven, come down before they get cold… and Merry Christmas, everyone!”

This is my mom’s idea of a jolly wake up call. She pumps holiday tunes at top volume on the stereo and calls us down to all have breakfast together with her famous cinnamon rolls. Usually, this treatment turns me into Miss Cranky MacGrumpy right away. I’d drag myself out of bed, join the breakfast table with a frown, only half-appreciate the deliciousness of my mother’s buns, and ready myself for a day of misery spent defending my dating life—or lack of thereof.

But not today. Today, I’m ready to gorge on buttery cinnamon rolls, I want to unwrap the presents, eat the turkey, and I might even start humming holiday tunes under my breath. Not even Aunt Betsy can ruin my mood.

“Better not make her wait,” I say, sitting up, glad I have an excuse to postpone The Conversation. “And the cinnamon rolls are worth it, I promise.”

We get up and awkwardly bump into each other as I side-step him on my way to the door. “I’ll meet you downstairs in just a few minutes,” I tell him.

In the bathroom, I take extra care to make myself as pretty as possible without giving the impression of trying too hard. I wash my face, brush my teeth, fluff my hair, and pinch some color into my cheeks. My lips are already red and plump, so they don’t need any extra pinching—a night of making out will do that for you. I’m tempted to apply some concealer under my eyes but decide against it. Julia might notice and call me out on it in front of everyone.

I hop down the stairs, skipping steps, and promptly barrel into Diego on the landing just as he comes out of the guest bathroom.

“Whoa, careful there.” He catches me by the waist and kisses my temple, whispering, “Merry Christmas, by the way.”

“Merry Christmas,” I repeat, out of breath.

We walk into the dining room holding hands and smiling like two fools.

“Morning.” I beam at everyone.

My mom immediately starts fussing around, serving coffee and placing two trays of cinnamon rolls on the table.

“Which ones are mine?” I ask.

Mom points to the tray on the left. “These are half raisin-free regulars.” For me, I hate raisins. “And the other half is the vegan version,” she adds for Julia.

Gosh, we’re two spoiled-rotten kids. At this moment, a surge of appreciation for my mom swells in my chest. I’m an awful child. I never call, I come home the bare minimum, and always try to avoid my family like the plague. True, whenever I talk to Mom she finds a way to work my non-existent love life into the conversation, driving me mad. But I know she does it out of real concern for my well-being. I should try to be more patient with her, and call her more, and visit more often.