Page 37 of A Season of Second Chances
Mom.
She started calling me that about six months ago, after months of asking if it was okay yet. The legal adoption is in progress—should be finalized in the next few months—but in every way that matters, she's already my daughter. My heart still swells every time she calls me Mom.
"Yes, we can start now," I tell her, taking one of the cookies from her plate. "Your dad's finally done with work."
"Finally," Alana sighs dramatically, making both Winter and me laugh. "I thought he was going to work forever."
"Never," Winter says, scooping her up in his arms even though she's getting big for that. She giggles, wrapping her arms around his neck. "I would never miss decorating the tree with my two favorite girls."
"Three," I correct, putting my hand on my stomach. "Three girls, remember?"
"Three girls," he agrees, his eyes meeting mine over Alana's head. The look he gives me is full of so much love and happiness and contentment that I have to blink back tears. Damn pregnancy hormones.
We head toward the Christmas tree in the corner of the lobby, the same one we decorated last year when I was just a stranded guest, not knowing that in a few days my entire life would change. The boxes of ornaments are already waiting, and Fiona has put on Christmas music in the background.
I settle onto the couch, my hand still on my stomach, and watch as Winter and Alana start pulling out ornaments.
"Mom, look!" Alana holds up a small crown ornament, the same shape as the paper crown I made her last Christmas. "We should put this one on first!"
"That's perfect, sweetheart," I tell her, my throat tight with emotion.
As I watch my husband and daughter decorate the tree together, laughing and teasing and just being a family, I think about how different my life is from what I imagined a year ago. How I thought I had everything figured out, thought I knew what success and happiness looked like.
I was so wrong.
Success isn't a corner office or a impressive title or my boss's approval. It's not working sixty hours a week or having a perfect apartment.
Success is this. It's watching the man I love teach our daughter how to hang an ornament just right. It's feeling the baby growing inside me, knowing that in a few months our family will be even bigger. It's having a job I'm passionate about, working from home in a place I actually want to be. It's being part of a community that knows my name and welcomes me. It's waking up every morning next to the person who knows all of me and loves me anyway.
Happiness isn't what I thought it was, either. It's not an achievement or recognition or proving something to the world.
Happiness is simple. It's morning pancakes and afternoon snowball fights. It's bedtime stories and goodnight kisses. It's decorating a Christmas tree with my family while Christmas music plays and cookies wait to be eaten. It's the weight of my wedding ring on my finger and the flutter of movement in my belly. It's knowing that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be, with exactly who I'm supposed to be with.
"Mom, are you crying?" Alana asks, abandoning the tree to come sit next to me. "Are you okay?"
"I'm perfect, baby," I tell her, pulling her close. "I'm just really happy."
"Happy tears?" she asks, and I nod. "Good. Those are the best kind."
Winter comes over and sits on my other side, his arm around my shoulders. The three of us sit there for a moment, just being together, and I feel more grateful than I ever have in my life.
"I love you both so much," I whisper.
"We love you too," Alana says immediately. "Right, Dad?"
"More than anything," Winter agrees, kissing my temple. "You're our everything, Joy.".
Eventually we finish decorating the tree, and Alana convinces us to play one of her board games while we eat cookies. We laugh and just enjoy being together, and when it's finally Alana's bedtime, we both take her upstairs and tuck her in together. We stay at the lodge, almost as much as we stay at home, so we keep a couple of rooms available.
"Will you stay until I fall asleep?" she asks, like she does every night.
"Of course," I tell her, settling into the chair beside her bed while Winter sits on the edge.
As we watch her eyes grow heavy and her breathing even out, Winter reaches over and takes my hand. We sit there in the darkness, listening to our daughter sleep, and I think about how close I came to missing all of this.
How I almost got in that car and drove away.
How I almost let fear and pride and other people's expectations keep me from the life I was meant to have.
