The blizzard outside was wild and fierce, throwing snow and ice against the windows. Inside the Thorne house, everything looked festive: white lights hung over the stairs, cinnamon candles burned everywhere, and a fake fireplace played on the TV. Our parents had planned the perfect Christmas vacation together: two families, one expensive cabin in the Cascades mountains, three days of hot chocolate, sleigh rides, and plenty of sweet holiday moments.
It was time to leave, but just one thing was holding us back.
I was slouched against the wall, half-listening to Dad and Mr. Thorne debate snow-chain brands like it was the Super Bowl, when Mrs. Thorne let out a dramatic sigh.
“Caleb, sweetheart,” she said, turning those hopeful auntie eyes on me, “could you run upstairs and haul Wendy do
