As a child, I saw my mother prepare for Christmas every year, and

Host: The living room was bathed in the amber glow of Christmas lights, the kind that flicker softly, like memory breathing. Outside, snow fell in slow spirals, touching the windowpanes with a kind of tender silence that only winter seems to understand.

The tree stood tall in the corner, its ornaments like tiny time capsules — each one a fragment of the past, each one reflecting the faint light of the fireplace.

Jack sat on the floor, untangling a string of lights, his fingers moving with the impatience of someone who had forgotten that ritual could once be sacred. Jeeny knelt beside him, sorting through a box of ornaments: glass angels, paper snowflakes, and one crooked star that had clearly survived too many years.

A faint smell of cinnamon and pine hung in the air.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how every mother becomes a magician around Christmas? The house turns into a theater, the table into a stage, and she’s the one behind the curtain, making sure the show goes on.”

Jack: “Yeah. And the audience — us — we just sat there and believed it was magic. Never thought about the hands behind it all. The tinsel, the cookies, the wrapping — all of it just… appeared.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, her eyes catching the light of the tree — that soft, nostalgic shine that seems to belong equally to childhood and heartache.

Jeeny: “Elizabeth Berg said it perfectly: As a child, I saw my mother prepare for Christmas every year, and it never occurred to me that labor was involved. I used to think it was my mom’s joy, too — not her work.”

Jack: “Funny thing is, we never saw the fatigue behind the smile. The late nights, the burned pies, the wrapping paper cuts. I thought she was like a holiday spirit — tireless. Turns out, she was just a woman trying to keep warmth alive.”

Host: The fire crackled, spitting soft sparks that danced against the hearth. Jeeny placed an ornament carefully on the tree, her hands steady, her voice quiet, almost like a prayer.

Jeeny: “My mom used to stay up until two or three. I’d wake up for water and see her in the living room, fixing ribbons, adjusting the lights, just to make sure it looked perfect in the morning. I used to think she loved doing it. Now I know she just loved us.”

Jack: “Yeah. That’s what we never get as kids — that love and labor are the same thing. It’s just that one’s wrapped in effort, and the other’s what makes it beautiful.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We thought Christmas was made by Santa. Turns out, it was made by women who never rested.”

Host: The clock on the mantel ticked softly, counting seconds like footsteps through the past. Jack leaned back, the lights from the tree reflecting in his grey eyes, and for once, there was something almost childlike in them.

Jack: “You know, I never said thank you to her. Not once. She’d do everything — the meals, the gifts, even the stupid matching pajamas. I’d just tear through it all like it was owed to me.”

Jeeny: “That’s the thing about mothers. They don’t do it for thanks. They do it because it’s how they speak love — not through words, but through warm houses and lit trees and full tables.”

Jack: “Still, we could’ve listened more. Paid attention. I think that’s what hurts the most now — realizing how much of her magic was sacrifice.”

Host: Jeeny sat back, resting her hands in her lap, her eyes soft with that quiet kind of understanding that doesn’t need to be spoken. The tree lights reflected in her eyes, like tiny constellations of memory.

Jeeny: “When I was little, I used to think my mom was happy all the time at Christmas. Now I know she was tired, but she still sang while she worked. Maybe that’s what love is — not ease, but joy that keeps showing up, even when you’re exhausted.”

Jack: “Yeah. My mom used to hum, too. Same song every year — ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.’ I used to think she was humming for herself. Now I think she was humming to keep herself from crying.”

Host: The tree lights flickered, a strand near the top blinking out, like a brief moment of loss in an otherwise glowing whole. Jeeny reached to fix it, but Jack gently stopped her hand.

Jack: “Leave it. It’s fine. Not everything needs to be perfect. She used to say that, didn’t she?”

Jeeny: “She said it, but she never believed it.”

Jack: “Yeah… neither did mine.”

Host: The room grew quieter, the kind of quiet that feels alive, like it’s holding something between them — a shared recognition, a soft grief that doesn’t demand, only lingers.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how we spend our whole lives trying to recreate that feeling? That morning magic — the warmth, the smell, the sense that the world was briefly... complete.”

Jack: “Yeah. We keep buying ornaments, baking cookies, playing the same songs, but it’s not the same. Because what we’re really chasing isn’t Christmas — it’s her.”

Host: A tear found its way down Jeeny’s cheek, though she smiled as it did, that rare kind of smile that knows both pain and gratitude.

Jeeny: “I guess that’s what memory does — it lets us hang the same tinsel on a new tree, strand by strand, hoping it’ll shine like it used to.”

Jack: “And even if it doesn’t, maybe it’s enough just to remember who taught us how.”

Host: The fireplace crackled louder, throwing warm light over the room. The ornaments shimmered, the tree seemed to breathe, and for a moment, the past and present folded into one — as if every mother who had ever bent, wrapped, cooked, or sung in December were somehow standing there, unseen, but felt.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, covering the world in quiet white forgiveness.

And as Jack and Jeeny sat there in the half-light, surrounded by tinsel, pine, and memory, one truth settled gently between them —

that what they once mistook for magic
was, in fact, the purest kind of love.