Holding On To Seven Years and Long Enough For A Lifetime
1124 Words
I lay the winter-blue gown on my bed like it’s made of glass.
The sequins shimmer like frost, delicate and confident at the same time—like the kind of woman I’m still trying to be.
I run my fingers over the fabric.
Soft. Cool.
A promise I don’t know is about to break.
But right now, in this moment, everything feels right.
The kids downstairs are practicing their little Christmas medley again. Their voices float up through the halls—tiny, imperfect angels singing from hearts that have survived too much. The sound hits me harder than I expect, pulling at the lonely threads inside me.
Maybe that’s why I cling to nights like this… nights when I can pretend I’m not just a caretaker of broken hearts but a woman in love, looking forward to Christmas with a man she’s spent seven years believing in.
I slip out of my work clothes and step into the warm shower. The water cascades down my back, easing the tension that never seems to fully leave. I close my eyes and let myself drift into my favorite Marcus memory.
Our first Christmas together.
We were younger, sillier, both broke but pretending not to be. He surprised me with a tree—a crooked one he dragged across the street himself. We decorated it with paper stars because we couldn’t afford anything else. He kissed me under that makeshift star at midnight and said:
“You make every December feel like a new beginning, Syd.”
I had believed him.
I still do… maybe too much.
As I towel my hair, my phone buzzes on the counter.
Marcus.
The corners of my mouth lift before I even read it.
Don’t forget your shawl. The ballroom might get chilly.
I laugh softly.
He always remembers details like that—little things I forget. He’s the type of man who’ll remind you to zip your bag, lock your doors, take umbrellas, avoid skipping meals. Responsible, sweet in practical ways. Not overly dramatic, not overly romantic… just steady.
And I’ve always liked steady.
I text back:
Thanks for the reminder, love. Don’t stress too much. See you soon.
No reply.
He must be drowning in gala duties.
I exhale, not worried—just wishing he’d say something more. Not because I need reassurance, but because tonight feels special. I want him to feel that too.
I slip into the gown carefully, letting the fabric hug my waist and fall in soft ripples around my legs. When I turn toward the mirror—
My breath catches.
I look… different.
Still me, but a version that survived storms. Softer around the eyes, stronger around the heart.
“You’re pretty, Miss Sydney.”
I jump slightly.
Little Mara—braids, missing tooth, princess-dress enthusiast—peeks at me from the door she didn’t bother to knock on.
“Mara! Sweetheart, you scared me.” I laugh.
She gasps dramatically. “Did I steal your sparkle?!”
“No,” I grin. “You made it brighter.”
She beams, then steps inside, wearing her mismatched socks like a fashion choice. “You look like Elsa. But… older version. But prettier. And not cold.”
“Wow,” I choke out. “Thank you, I think?”
She nods earnestly. “Will your boyfriend like your dress?”
Ah. Kids and their direct hits.
“I hope so.”
She tilts her head and studies me like she can read emotions I hide from adults. “You’re excited… but your heart is nervous.”
I freeze.
Children have this unnerving superpower—they sense things you haven’t even told yourself yet.
“I’m okay,” I say gently. “Just a big night.”
She nods again, not fully convinced. “Don’t be scared, Miss Sydney. Christmas miracles like good people.”
She hugs me around the waist, then skips away before I can answer.
Her words linger though.
Christmas miracles like good people.
Then why haven’t they found me yet?
By 5:15 PM, I’m fully ready—hair curled softly, lips tinted rose, silver shawl folded neatly over my arm. I grab my small clutch and check again if I forgot anything.
Phone.
Lip tint.
Handkerchief.
The tiny snowflake charm the kids gave me last year.
Good.
I glance around my room one last time.
Everything feels too quiet… like the calm before a storm I don’t yet know is coming.
Downstairs, the staff is buzzing around like caffeinated elves.
“Boss, you look stunning!”
“Oh my gosh, Marcus is going to faint.”
“Sydney, that gown? Whew. Regal.”
I laugh and wave them off, but their excitement warms me.
I’ve always felt supported here.
Maybe that’s why the foundation feels more like a home than any place ever has.
“You sure you don’t want us to livestream tonight?” Tasha teases. “We wanna see the romance in 4K.”
I roll my eyes. “Stop. It’s just a gala.”
“Girl,” she raises a brow, “you’re wearing that dress to a gala organized by the man you’ve loved for seven years. If a proposal doesn’t happen, I’m suing.”
I almost choke. “Tasha!”
“What? A girl can manifest.”
Proposal.
The word sends a tiny flutter through me.
Not expectation—just a quiet ache.
We’ve talked about marriage before, but always casually. Marcus said someday. I said someday too. We never circled back. Life got busy, responsibilities got heavier, and someday kept getting pushed further and further away.
But still…
A part of me wonders.
Not because I need a ring to feel secure—Marcus has never made me feel unwanted—but because I’ve loved him long enough for my heart to imagine a lifetime.
Still, I laugh it off. “Tonight is about the foundation, not us.”
“Uh-huh,” she smirks. “Keep telling yourself that.”
I shake my head, heart warming despite myself.
At exactly 5:30 PM, the headlights of a black Hamilton Empire sedan stop at the foundation entrance.
The driver steps out and opens the door for me. “Good evening, Miss Walters. Ready when you are.”
I inhale slowly.
Steadying myself.
Believing in something good.
Believing in us.
The kids wave from the lobby windows, making heart signs with their fingers and yelling, “BYE MISS SYDNEY! DON’T LET YOUR BOYFRIEND BE LATE!”
I laugh, cheeks flushing.
I give a small wave back, clutch my shawl, and step into the car—
still holding the quiet, glowing belief that tonight will be beautiful.
Still unaware that tonight…
will break me in ways I have never imagined.
- Writer
