Page 19 of One Night, Two Holidays

She tilts her head. “So what is Advent, exactly? I know about the calendar with chocolate, but that’s it.”

I lean forward, surprised at how excited I am to tell her—like it’s my small way of thanking her for sharing all this with me. “It’s a weekly countdown to Christmas. There are four candles in a wreath and one in the center. Each candle represents something—hope, peace, joy, love—and we light one each Sunday in December. Then we light the center candle on Christmas Eve. We stopped doing it when I went to college, but my mom started again this year with my niece and nephew…”

Her face softens. “And you missed it.”

I nod, feeling that familiar ache in my chest. Before I can say anything more, she stands and goes into the living room, then returns holding a few of the candles we were burning earlier.

She sets four in a circle on the table and one in the middle. “I don’t have a wreath, but kind of like this?”

A lump rises unexpectedly in my throat, and I swallow. “Yeah. That’s it.”

She hands me the matchbox and I pull one out, then hesitate, remembering how she offered me the shamash, how it felt when she invited me to join something that matters to her.

“Would you do the honors?” I say.

Her lips curve in a pleased smile. “Sure.”

She lights each candle, and as the light grows, warmth settles on my shoulders. For a moment, it’s almost like my family is here with me.

“So, what did your mom say,” Nessa says, nudging me. “When you were being a pain-in-the-ass teenager about Advent?”

I grin. “She’d say I was missing the point. That the point of the Christmas story isn’t all the details but the meaning behind it. She told me I needed to focus on the message.”

“And what’s the message?”

Shaking my head, I chuckle. “I asked her the same thing. She said I needed to figure it out myself.”

“Classic mom move,” she says, laughing.

“Yeah,” I say fondly. “She’s the best.”

Nessa smiles, her eyes softening. “That makes me think of my Bubbe—every year, she would remind us that Hanukkah wasn’t about the presents, but the miracle of it all. She said the lesson was learning to trust that there will be enough. That even when things look impossible, what we’ve been given and what we have to offer is enough.”

Her words settle over me, heavy and comforting all at once. I think back to everything I told her earlier today about how I’m feeling—the children facing battles they never should’ve had to fight, families breaking under the weight—and how she said I’m doing the best I can.

I’ve spent so much time questioning whether I can make a difference, doubting if my efforts are worth it. But for the first time, I consider that maybe it’s not about fixing everything. It’s about showing up. Giving what I can. And trusting that, in the end, it’ll be enough.

“Thanks for sharing that,” I say, watching the lights flickering between us—the candles on Nessa’s beautiful menorah plus the mismatched Advent wreath she made for me, just so I could have a little taste of home. “Interesting how candles are important in both holidays.”

“Finding light in the darkness,” she says. “Hope even in the worst of times.”

“Like, a baby born in a barn can grow up to change the world.”

“And a tiny bit of oil,” she says softly, “can burn for seven days and eight nights.”

“Or getting stranded in a snowstorm with a stranger and finding a friend.”

“And maybe…” Nessa swallows, her lashes lowering as she looks down. “More than a friend.”

Her eyes meet mine and everything goes quiet, as if the entire world is taking a deep breath. My gaze drifts down to her lips, watching as they part slightly, catching the pink tip of her tongue as she wets her bottom lip.

A wave of heat rolls through me, making my fingers twitch with the urge to touch her. It’s not just attraction—though that’s undeniable—it’s thispullbetween us. This unexpected connection that’s deepening with every word, every glance.

I clear my throat. “So…now what do we do?”

“Well, like I said, we’d usually play dreidel,” she says, grinning. “It’s a kids’ game, though.”

“Sounds fun,” I say genuinely. A kids' game feels like exactly what I need right now.

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