Miriam walked downstairs the next morning grouchy, hoping to hide out in the kitchen and avoid all the festivities. She got to a point in every holiday season when she was Christmased out and ready to graffiti dreidels on random Santa displays.

She stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked into the great room. The guests were gathered in their Christmas pajamas, wrapped in blankets and snuggling in front of the fire. Outside, the wind was whipping the trees into song, the ice crackling on the roof. The cold had become sentient overnight, the kind of cold that made you whisper out of fear that it would steal your voice along with your breath.

Around the tree, piles of presents in bright metallics reflected the lights.

In the center of the room, Noelle sat criss-cross applesauce with a giant bow in her hair, in tree-patterned long johns that left little of her curves to the imagination. Her hair was sleep-mussed and she was laughing at something Mrs. Matthews had said.

On a table along the wall, there were piles of cinnamon rolls, carafes of mimosas, and—Miriam noticed, shining like a beacon—multiple pots of coffee. As she walked in, Noelle saw her and waved wildly.

“I love Christmas morning!” she shouted happily.

Miriam blew her a kiss. She was tempted to lean into Noelle’s warmth, but through the kitchen doors she saw Mr. Matthews sitting at the blue-tiled island, reading the newspaper and drinking a cup of coffee. That was what her mood needed. Miriam took a moment to look him over, since she so rarely saw him in stillness. His hair was grayer, his wrinkles deeper, which was to be expected after a decade. She poured herself a coffee and slid in next to him, clinking her cup against his in wordless cheers.

Mr. Matthews grunted.

“Can I sit here with you? I’ll be quiet, I promise.”

“When have I ever not wanted your company?” He raised a bushy eyebrow at her. “All my kids are always welcome in our kitchen.”

She teared up at him calling her one of his kids. They sat, warm and quiet and comfortable, for a long time, listening to the sounds from around the tree.

While everyone was re-creating all of Cass’s favorite Christmas Day traditions (she thought Cole might perish from excitement over the reindeer races), Miriam went looking for her mother. She was standing just outside the action, watching.

“You know you’re allowed to have fun, right?” Miriam asked her.

“I don’t remember how,” Ziva admitted, sitting stiffly on the same chaise that Miriam had wanted to turn into a moose.

“You realize how depressing that sounds.”

“Yes, poor sad rich woman with the shitty husband, please pity me.” Ziva held her hand up to her forehead in a vaudevillian gesture. “I’m sorry I missed your birthday.”

Miriam rolled her eyes at her mom managing to make Miriam’s birthday about herself.