Page 92 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
His name is Soren Thorn (yes, that Thorn—the eldest of that despicable family), and he’s as handsome as he is helpful: tech-savvy, mildly brooding, and very tall, according to Aunt Belinda’s Thanksgiving commentary.
They met (long story), pretended to date (longer story), and now ...we’re officially on engagement watch.We finally have a couple in the family whose meet-cute sounds like a streaming original and not a divorce deposition.(Looking at you, Trish.)
BAKERY BREAKING NEWS:
After much hemming, hawing, and one near-breakdown over font choices, Winnifred’s bakery opened in March to rave reviews.
The name isn’t my favorite (even though she insists “it’s a vibe, Mom”), but they’re now locally famous for their dangerously addictive salted caramel shortbread and something called emotional support scones.
ABOUT THAT NEWSLETTER PHOTO ...
Adorable, isn’t it?
Coordinated flannel pajamas.Matching mugs.A real tree.And—for the first time in twenty-eight years (or is it thirty-one?)—Winnifred made it into the family newsletter.
Yes, I stole the photo from last year’s post on her social media.No, she didn’t send one voluntarily.Something about “growth” and “not caring about my feelings.”
MISCELLANEOUS FAMILY UPDATES:
Glenn’s children are still doing ballet/soccer/debate/sailing.They sent a four-page insert.I didn’t read it.
My sister Nell “retired” from real estate but still runs the office.
Great-Aunt Liv called the Ficus in Win’s photos “oversexed.”We’re ignoring that.
Soren’s mother and I are speaking again, though she still mispronounces “Wolfcraft.”We’ll keep praying for her.
FROM THE DESK OF MOM:
To my youngest daughter: You’ve always marched to your own drum.Sometimes, it was offbeat.Sometimes it was very loud.
But this year?You might have actually won the family competition.
Don’t mess it up.
To everyone else: Try to be more like Fred.
She made it to the top of the Howler this year without needing a rescue dog or a triathlon.
Merry Christmas, from our slightly chaotic, occasionally dramatic, always unforgettable family to yours.
Warmly (and with mild judgment),
Marjorie
Soren’s Epilogue
The living room smells like cinnamon and pine and whatever magic Win sprinkled into her Christmas blend coffee.The tree glows in the corner—taller than either of us, half-decorated because we got distracted making out on the rug two nights ago and never finished.There’s a ribbon roll abandoned under the couch.A Santa hat on the Ficus I swore we wouldn’t bring with us, but here we are.Still tangled up in this beautiful, ridiculous life we built together.
It’s our first Christmas in the new house.
Cherry Hills, Colorado—tucked on a quiet street with a brick driveway, a big kitchen, and wide windows that let the light pour in.There’s enough room for all of Win’s baking gadgets and my espresso machine.There’s still a tower of moving boxes in the garage labeled “Win’s Winter Crap” and “Soren, Do Not Touch.”But the fridge is full, the heat works, and this morning, she let me put on the worst holiday playlist ever created without protest.
So yeah.We’re doing amazing.
She’s on the couch now, curled into a throw blanket, one knee tucked under her.She’s wearing that oversized sweater I love—the one that always slides off one shoulder and makes her look like a walking, talking holiday fantasy I don’t deserve but will absolutely spend the rest of my life worshipping anyway.
She’s reading a card I wrote for her.Something about how she ruins my ability to be rational and makes me want to buy wrapping paper in bulk.
