“Three years next month,” I say. “She got pneumonia, and there were a lot of complications.”

I’m not going to think about that day in the hospital. Not on Christmas. Not when things are just starting to look up. My mom wouldn’t want that. She’d tell me to get it together and enjoy this moment, because time is precious and Asher is cute.

She would definitely think Asher is cute.

I bet I’m getting a thumbs up right now.

“Were you by yourself?”

“No,” I tell him. “We had a lot of friends and neighbors that made sure I didn’t have to go through it alone.”

“God, O,” he says, kissing the top of my head. “You’re so strong.”

“She was strong for me my whole life. It’s the least I can do to continue to be strong for her.”

I feel his lips brush against my hair once more. It’s not enough for me. I tilt my head and catch him in a soft kiss.

“Thank you for the photograph,” I tell him. “Did you wrap it yourself?”

“I did,” he says. “But then Morgan said it looked like crap, so she redid it. I put the bow on, though.”

“Did you have to fight Chloe?”

“Yes, and she’s a sore loser.”

I laugh and laugh and laugh until a few tears stain Asher’s sweater. We stay like this for a while, eating our way through half a dozen donuts while all three Home Alone movies play in the background. Eventually, I fall asleep on Asher’s lap.

* * *

Morgan calls at three o’clock, and invites us to the park to walk the newest member of the Fisher-Walton family. I forgo putting jeans back on, and instead find a pair of fleece-lined leggings that don’t have a hole in the crotch. I find one boot in the kitchen and another in the living room, and while Asher waits patiently by the door, I slip my arms into the jacket he loves so much.

“Ah, electrocuted poodle chic,” he says. “You might offend the dog.”

“I’m sure the dog appreciates a bargain.”

“Yeah, pretty sure this dog only shops at Bergdorf Goodman.”

He explains during the ride to Washington Square Park that the puppy originally belonged to his godmother, Minerva Tallcot, but was re-homed with Morgan. Apparently, the puppy’s queen-bee attitude didn’t bode well with Minerva’s other diva-ish dogs.

I’ve heard rumors—well, I’ve read them in tabloids while waiting in line at Duane Reade—that each dog has their own personal chef, nanny, and trainer. A tiny puppy who hasn’t even had a taste of luxury surely can’t be more of a primadonna than the ones drinking water flown in from Switzerland.

I’m proved wrong the second I see this three pound, well-groomed ball of fluff walking Chloe.