Grace
The morning air bites gently at my cheeks as Mom and I step onto the snow-dusted porch, the cold sharp enough to sting but not enough to chase away the hum of anticipation buzzing through the house behind us. Her tote bag is swinging from her shoulder, already crammed full of lists, pens, and last-minute reminders.
The door creaks open again before we’ve made it down the steps.
“Alright, boys,” Mom calls back toward the house, already marching down the steps, “Here’s the plan while we’re gone: Dawson, make sure the oven’s preheated before you put them in, and if you burn them, you’ll be explaining it to me personally. Parker, check the outdoor lights—don’t let the new neighbors see us looking like amateurs. And please, for heaven’s sake, keep the living room tidy, so no one trips
