Alone with the dishes, I listened to the twins’ footsteps as they ran down the hall, the squeak of the old box springs, the rise and fall of Meg’s voice as she read them a story. If I ever had kids—which was probably never going to happen, given how my life was going—I hoped I’d be as good a mom as Meg.

A snatch of lullaby drifted down the stairs. “Silent night . . .” A fat, hot tear slid down my nose and plopped into the sink. Crap.

“No use crying over spilled milk,” Momma would say.

I dried my hands and reached for my phone. As if a handful of new blog comments would make me less alone. I checked my text messages.

Nothing.

I mopped my eyes with the dish towel and went outside.

Iteetered on the railing of the front porch, stretching for the hook I was sure our mother had screwed into the eaves.

“What on earth are you doing?” Meg asked.

I glanced at my sister, silhouetted in the doorway. “Putting up the Christmas lights.”

“But it’s dark,” said my sister rationally.

“That’s why we need them.”

She tipped her head to one side, considering the open cartons and tangles of wires spread over the shadowed porch.

I held my breath, hoping she would understand my need to do something. Waiting for the Jo, be reasonable look she’d given me our entire lives.

“I’ll get the ladder,” my sister said.

An hour later, Meg was pink-cheeked with cold and exertion. I had scratches on both arms and a splinter throbbing in my thumb. Overhead, the stars shone, pure and clear as angel voices. I could not see the river, but I could smell water, like snow or promise in the air. Weasley, safe from Daisy, twitched his tail on the porch rail, lit by the glow of fat, multicolored lights. Candles shone from every window. More lights bloomed on the front of the house, festooning the bushes and twining up the crepe myrtle.

I was pretty sure our mother would have approved.

“It looks great,” Meg said.

“Yeah.” Like home. I shot her a sideways glance. “Want to do the tree now?”

She huffed with amusement. “We have to buy one first.”

“There should still be an old one around somewhere. From when Daddy was deployed?” Our mother had always insisted we celebrate Christmas together as a family. One year that tree stood, covered in ornaments and dust, until February, when Dad came home from Iraq.

“The fake one? Great. Maybe we can get DJ to throw balls at it,” Meg said.

I leaned my head against her shoulder, a little buzzed with wine and lack of sleep. “Thanks for being here.”

She hugged me, enveloping me in her warm Meg smell, babies and Pantene shampoo. “What are sisters for?”

I felt a twinge of guilt. I hadn’t exactly been there for her lately. “How are you doing?”