“Merry Christmas.” I shiver while I watch him drive off, reindeer antlers bobbing in the wind. Then I head back inside, where I find Mom and Landry in the kitchen.

“That was quick,” I say as I slide onto the bar stool next to my sister, pleased to see that my mother is making a pot of real hot chocolate. On the stove, with milk, sugar, and cocoa powder.

“Yeah. Turns out there’s not really much to say after ‘Sorry I had your son’s baby without telling you. Happy holidays!’ ” Landry mimes a wave with a half-hysterical laugh.

“They have a lot to think about,” Mom says, stirring the pot with a whisk. “And a lot to talk about.”

Landry moans. “Fletcher’s dad’s going to kill him.”

“No he won’t,” I assure her. “It was a mistake and a tragedy. But you were right. It’s all over now, and—”

“And now everything’s ruined.” Landry’s chin quivers.

“No. Now everything’s different,” I tell her. “Not gonna lie. I don’t think you can go back from this. But you can move forward. And we’ll be right here beside you.”

“Beckett’s right.” Mom pulls two mugs down from the cabinet and turns off the stove. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there before.” She leans over the island and takes both of Landry’s hands. “Sorrier than you’ll ever possibly understand. But I will be from now on, and I need you to start trusting me. Talking to me. Even if that’s just to tell me that I’m totally screwing up this single-parenting thing.”

“You’re not—” I begin, but my mother shushes me as she stands to pour the cocoa.

“Things have to change around here. So we’re going to have a nice, peaceful Christmas. Just the four of us. Then I’m going to lay down some new rules.”

I frown into the mug she sets in front of me. “I think that may be an overreaction.”

“It isn’t. There are going to be far fewer unsupervised study sessions and closed bedroom doors when you have company.”

I groan.

“And there will be more family meals.”

“Does that mean you’ll be home for dinner?” Landry asks.

Mom grins at her. “I may even cook occasionally.”

My sister rolls her eyes. “Frozen pizza doesn’t count.”

“Noted. But you will be expected to talk at these family dinners. I want to hear what’s going on in your life. Good or bad. I want to know who you are these days.” She reaches out and tucks a strand of Landry’s hair behind her ears. “And we’re not going to have any more secrets, okay? That doesn’t mean no more privacy,” she adds when I open my mouth to object. “But no more secrets. And that’s not up for discussion. Got it?”