IVA
The kitchen was bustling with activity when Lev and my father arrived with the Christmas tree. Lala and I had our sleeves rolled up, our hands dusted with flour and spice, as pots simmered softly on the stove and the air was thick with the comforting aromas of cinnamon and roasting meat.
We were late decorators, but everything outside had been done weeks earlier. The Christmas tree in the house was always last. It had become a tradition without our intention.
"They're back!" Lala said, grinning and wiping her hands on a towel. And Lev appeared in the doorway, accompanied by my father, as they maneuvered the tall tree through the hall, pine needles trailing behind.
Their cheeks were flushed from the cold, and I dashed over to ask where my baby was, only to stop short when I entered
