The first call came at 9:17 on Christmas morning.
It wasn’t from my mother.
It wasn’t from my father.
And it certainly wasn’t from my younger sister, Brooke.
It was from Mrs. Eleanor Patterson, our former neighbor, a seventy-three-year-old widow who had lived across the street from my parents for nearly twenty years.
“Miranda, sweetheart!” she practically shouted when I answered. “I saw you on television last night!”
I laughed.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Patterson.”
“Merry Christmas! Oh, honey, that house! Those windows! That fireplace! And the mountain views! I nearly spilled my tea when they said your name.”
“Thank you.”
“I always knew you were going to do something wonderful.”
Something tightened in my chest.
Those were words I’d been waiting to hear from my parents for most of my life.
“That’s very kind of you.”
Then Mrs. Patterson said something that made me set down my coffee.
“I called your mother this morning to tell her how beautiful everything looked. And do you know what she said?”
I already had a feeling.
“What?”
“She asked me what house I was talking about.”
I closed my eyes.
Mrs. Patterson continued.
“I told her about the Christmas special. I said, ‘Linda, your daughter has built one of the most beautiful houses I’ve ever seen. Why on earth weren’t you there last night?’”
I remained silent.
“She told me she hadn’t seen it.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“Well, I asked her where she thought you’d been celebrating Christmas.”
I gripped the phone.
“What did she say?”
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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