Chapter 35 Lottie
Lottie
I’m shaken awake a few hours later. For a second, I don’t know where I am.
The room is dimmer now — the soft glimmer of Christmas lights replacing the gray afternoon light that had poured through the windows earlier. My neck aches from the awkward angle I must’ve fallen asleep in, half-curled on the couch beneath a knitted blanket that smells faintly like apples and laundry detergent.
The remnants of my dream slowly fade as I look blearily up to see my mom standing over me, his silhouette outlined by the glow of the tree.
“Hey, hon,” he says softly, brushing a hand over my hair the way he used to when I was little. “Uncles Tim and Levi are leaving. They’ll be back, though — your cousins are staying for a couple of days. Aunt Roxanne already left. She didn’t want to wake you, so she told me to tell you she’d see you before you went back to school.”
His voice is gentle, but tired. Everyone is tired.
I nod slowly, pushing myself upright and rubbing at my eyes. The house feels different now — quieter. Heavy with that after-holiday lull that comes from too much food, too much laughter, too many stories told all at once.
I glance around.
A few of my cousins are sprawled across the living room like fallen dominoes — one stretched out on the rug near the tree, another slumped against the arm of the couch, two of them leaning against each other in a heap of tangled limbs. Wrapping paper still litters the floor like bright, crumpled islands. Half-empty plates sit forgotten on side tables.
The air smells like ham glaze, sugar cookies, and the faint pine of the tree.
I swing my legs over the side of the couch and stand, my feet a little unsteady from sleep and the long day. The house hums with low voices near the front door, coats rustling, boots being tugged on.
A sliver of cold air snakes its way down the hallway. I pull my sweater tighter around myself and make my way toward the door, the hardwood cool beneath my socked feet.
I hear Charlie saying his rambunctious goodbyes and the low rumble of responding voices.
The moment I round the corner, I walk straight into Uncle Levi.
“Whoa there,” he chuckles, steadying me as his arms automatically wrap around my shoulders.
I relax instantly, pressing into the hug. He smells like winter air and the cologne he’s worn for as long as I can remember. I wrap my arms around him and squeeze tight, like I’m trying to memorize the shape of him.
“I’m glad you came,” I mumble against his coat.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he replies, giving me one last squeeze before releasing me.
I step over to Auntie Linda next. She looks just as worn out as Mom — hair slightly mussed, lipstick faded, but her smile is warm as ever. She opens her arms before I even say anything.
“See you later, hon,” she says, voice soft.
I hug her carefully, mindful of the scarf wrapped around her neck. “Drive safe,” I tell her.
She pats my back twice before letting me go.
Then I turn to Uncle Tim.
I stop a few feet away and just… look at him for a moment.
If I had to choose a favorite — and I know you’re not supposed to — it would be him.
He always treated me a little special because I was the “firstborn.” The first niece. The first baby passed around at family gatherings. I grew up on his shoulders, in his lap, at his side, while he explained things to me like I was older than I was.
He made me feel important.
I’ve always loved him a little extra for that.
He notices me staring and lifts a brow playfully. “What’s that look for?”
I smile widely, the sleepiness melting away, and step into him, wrapping my arms around his waist. He’s solid and warm — the kind of hug that makes you feel small in the best way.
“I missed you, Unc,” I say, squeezing tighter. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”
He chuckles softly, and I feel his hand come up to cradle the back of my head the way he’s done since I was five. He leans in and presses a gentle kiss to the side of my face.
“I love you, Lottie girl,” he says quietly. “I’ll call more often now that we’ll be staying stateside.”
Something about that makes my chest tighten in a good way.
“You better,” I tease, though my voice comes out more petulant than I intend.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes warm and steady. For a second, I feel like I’m ten again — safe, certain, loved.
I lean down to hug Auntie Lily next to him, kissing her softly on her cheek and whispering good night.
The door opens wider, and a rush of cold air spills into the house. Snow glitters faintly under the porch light outside.
They gather their bags, exchange final hugs and reminders, and promises to come back in a couple of days.
I step back as they move out onto the porch, wrapping my arms around myself against the chill that follows them in.
“Love you!” I call as they head toward the car.
“Love you!” they chorus back.
The door closes.
The house settles again — quieter now. Seemingly smaller.
I stand there for a moment longer, staring out the window by the door, listening to their engines start outside. My reflection stares back at me in the glass — cheeks flushed, hair mussed from sleep, eyes softer than they were this morning.
I don’t know why, but in the stillness that follows, my thoughts drift.
Not to the gifts.
Not to the food.
Not even to my cousins sprawled across the living room floor.
They drift to him.
And for a moment, I wonder—if he’s thinking about me tonight too.