Page 67 of Moms of Mayhem
“Dude.” Jace held up the frame, then pointed in the background of the photo. “I totally forgot Ty was playing against the Yeti that night. That’s Beckett.”
I leaned forward, taking the frame from his hand, and really looked at it.
There in the background was Beckett—mid-stride, stick on the ice, eyes locked somewhere off-camera with that intense,do-not-mess-with-meexpression I saw every morning while he battled through Pilates classes for the last week.
My finger trailed across the glass, wondering how many other times we’d circled each other, just out of reach.
“How’s his therapy going?” Jace asked, and I set the photo down in my lap. “We watched the last Yeti game at Ty’s house with him, and I can tell he’s dying to be back on the ice.”
My head bobbed back and forth far too many times to be considered a nod while I tried to tamp down any reaction to the mention of Beckett. “Good. He has a long road ahead, but he’s committed to it. You still like skating with him?”
Jace flopped back on the floor, staring up at the ceiling and tugging at the strings of his hoodie. “Yeah. He’s amazing. He’s not mean, but he’s tough—pushes me harder than anyone ever has but always points out when I did something right too. I don’t know that I’ve ever had someone pay that much attention before, you know? Makes me want to work harder, to be like him.”
I stared down at my hands while he detailed everything the two of them had worked on each morning at the pond over the last two weeks, a riot of emotions flooding me: anger, that Jace has never once said anything like that about his own dad; awe, that my son was so motivated to work his ass off for his dreams; and more than a little empathy, because yes, Ididknow.
“I thought it might look good on your Juniors’ dorm wall someday.” I pointed at the pennant, aiming for casual and missing by a mile instead of answering Jace’s rhetorical question.
Jace’s head tipped my way, his hazel eyes soft. “Are you okay?”
“Me? Thriving,” I said. “Absolutely love sending my onlychild off to Connecticut the day after Christmas to live off protein shakes and passive-aggression. Think of all the things I’ll get to doalone, for once. No shoes to trip over, no wet towels on the floor, no trash on the coffee table.”
He rolled his eyes, then climbed up on the couch next to me, laying his head in my lap. His legs dangled over the armrest, way too tall for the little boy I still saw in flashes. I ran my hands through his messy hair, trying not to count how many Christmas mornings like this we had left.
Ty and Rowdy showed up an hour later to find us in the exact same position, watchingChristmas Vacationwith paper and ribbon still strewn across the floor. He stopped in the doorway, seeing the tears shimmering in my eyes, and gave me a soft smile.
“Breakfast?” Jace looked back over the sofa and snapped his fingers for Rowdy, who jumped up into my son’s lap.
Ty held up a carton of eggs fresh from his farm, and a pack of bacon. “On it. Want to help?”
Jace got up, and Rowdy followed him into the kitchen. I pulled my knees to my chest, staring at my two favorite boys, wondering how I’d gotten so lucky to win the genetic lottery.
My brother topped off my coffee to warm it back up, then got to work making a smorgasbord of breakfast food meant to feed a small army or a singular teenage boy—take your pick.
Together, we FaceTimed my parents in Arizona, the cacti in the background looking festive with a red Santa hat on the top like a tree-topper. Originally, we’d planned to fly them out for Christmas, but with Jace leaving tomorrow, it just hadn’t worked out. After 15 years of us all living in different parts of the country, a video call holiday wasn’t asweird as you’d think. It was good to see them, but I wasn’t longing for home, not with Ty and Jace right here.
The doorbell rang, and I frowned, looking over at the only guest I’d planned on seeing today.
“I’ll get it,” Jace said, walking toward the entryway with Rowdy at his heels.
I peered around the corner, watching as he opened the door and picked up a package from the front steps. He closed it again, staring down at a wrapped present.
“Tag says it’s for you, Mom.”
He handed it to me, then disappeared back into the kitchen.
I stared down at the messily wrapped package. The paper was plain red and folded a little wonky. An excessive amount of tape held everything in place, looking like it had been applied in a fit of stubbornness rather than strategy. The bow was more than a little lopsided, like someone had tried to make it look pretty, then given up halfway and hoped the effort would count for something.
The tag was simple. JustTo: Emmy. No sender, no handwriting I recognized for certain.
But still, something fluttered in my chest.
It felt intentional. Not in the way someone might toss a gift into a bag and call it a day, but like this person—whoever they were—had genuinely tried. Like they'd stood at their kitchen counter with too much tape and not enough skill and thought of me the whole time.
I peeled the paper back carefully, my heart fluttering. Inside was a puzzle—soft winter colors, a quiet cabin scene tucked into snow-covered pines. A little folded note rested on top, written in messy, slanted handwriting.
In case the house feels a little too quiet this week. Hope it makes you smile.
No signature.
