“I love you,” Dad said. “Take care of Momma and your sisters for me.”

Jo swallowed hard. “I will.”

“I’m proud of you,” Dad said. “Proud of all my girls. I think of you every day and ask God to bless you and keep you safe and strong. Let me say good-bye to your mother now.”

“Love you,” Jo choked out.

She surrendered the phone, her heart burning. She hardly got to talk to him at all. She didn’t get to tell him about the poem she published in the student newspaper or the English paper she wrote on the Brontës or . . .

“She’s fine,” their mother was saying. “We’re all fine. We love you.”

“We’re getting cut off,” Dad said. “Love you, too, honey. Merry Christmas. God bless you.”

“Merry Christmas!” they all chorused.

The connection cut off. Silence fell, as cold as snow. Beth’s eyes swam with unshed tears. Amy’s face was blotchy.

God bless us, every one. Dickens, Jo thought, but Daddy wasn’t here to appreciate the reference.

“Well.” Momma took a deep breath. Released it. “Time for some Christmas music.”

Jo stared. But then she saw how their mother gripped the phone like she couldn’t bear to let go.

All those years their father was a minister, their mother never once complained about his hours or his charity cases. When he gave up his congregation in town to join the army, she talked about his sacrifices. But she sacrificed, too. It couldn’t have been easy for her to move back down on the farm, to make the transition from pastor’s wife to goat farmer.

“We could put on Bethie’s Christmas CD,” Meg said. “It’ll be just like listening with Daddy.”

Not really, Jo thought. But Beth’s face glowed.

“What a wonderful idea,” Momma said.

Beth jumped up to put the music on.

“And we can open presents,” Amy said.

“Not until after dinner,” Meg, the rule-follower, said.

“Actually, I think now is the perfect time,” Momma said. “You girls deserve a treat.”

“Me first,” Amy said. “I’m the youngest.”

Momma smiled at Jo. “I think Jo should choose first.”

And that’s when Jo knew what she had to do. Pretty, responsible Meg took after Momma—the model daughter. But Jo had always considered herself their father’s child. She was determined to live up to his expectations.

“Take care of Momma and your sisters for me.”

Jo surveyed the piles under the sad, stiff, artificial tree. That flat rectangle? A book, for sure. The bigger box . . . Well, she’d asked for a laptop this year, but it was probably only clothes—new pajamas, maybe, or a hoodie. Hey, plenty of kids didn’t get that much. She ought to be grateful.

“This one,” she said, and laid a squashy package in her mother’s lap.

Momma looked down at the lopsided bow, a pucker between her brows. “But, honey, this has my name on it.”

“I know.” Jo stuck out her chin. “The rule is, we each pick one present. I want you to open this one.”