Christmas Week: Keep, Release, Begin

By late afternoon the house has settled into its end-of-year rhythm. Your dad arranges cushions and checks out the guest list for every countdown show. Maddy hadnles snack duty by loudly “taste-testing” from every bowl of chips, salsa and pretzels she lays out. Your mom governs the work with the surety she uses at her shelter.

Rebekah stays close to you in the kitchen. She has her sleeves rolled up, helping with the dishes from earlier. The bruise on her cheek is still there, faint beneath careful makeup, but she no longer hides behind sunglasses.

“House rule for guests: they do the dishes,” Maddy announces as she passes, balancing two bowls and grinning at Rebekah.

Rebekah’s answering smirk is small but genuine. “Then I guess I’m in.”

Your dad calls from the doorway, “Son, don’t let her fall for Maddy’s scams. We rotate dish duty. Teamwork.”

By the time night folds over the windows, everyone is gathered in the living room. The lights on the tree blink their steady rhythm; the television hums low with its pre-countdown chatter. That’s when your mother brings out the basket: slips of paper, pens, and the shallow ceramic dish.

“Rebekah, we have a New Year's ritual. You're welcome to join if you'd like, We make three notes each,” she says, placing the basket on the coffee table. “One lists what you want to keep. One what you want to release from your life. And the other something you want to begin. It's up to you, of course, but we'd love you have you take part.”

"Sure," says Rebekah. "Sounds good."

You pick up your pen and slip, sitting cross-legged on the rug with Rebekah beside you. Her shoulder brushes yours as she leans in to write, her strokes deliberate.

You think carefully before making your decisions as to what goes on each note. Next to you, Rebekah pauses between words, tapping her pen against the paper. She writes slower, eyes narrowed like every choice carries weight. When she finishes, she folds one slip carefully and sets it apart.

Your dad goes first. He clears his throat, performing gravitas. “Keep: Sunday pancakes and your mother’s veto power in the kitchen.”

“Damn right,” your mom says.

“Release: ladders.” He slides that one straight into the dish.

Maddy groans. “He fell once—”

“Twice,” your mom corrects.

“—and now it’s a thing.”

“Safety is always a thing,” your dad retorts, puffing up. Then, with pride: “Begin: label the remotes.” He lifts a pack of neon stickers like it’s treasure.

“Oh no,” Maddy mutters, hiding her face. “We’ve lost him.”

Laughter eases the room before she takes her turn. You whisper into Rebekah's ear that you love your dad but he does love his silly rituals to try to fix chaos he himself creates. For some reason, your own behavior in the College Spread game enters your mind when you say it.

Maddy goes next. “Keep: being the funnier sibling.” She stares at you until you roll your eyes in mock surrender. “Release: ghosting group chats when things get messy.” She tosses that one into the dish with a flourish. Her last slip she reads more softly. “Begin: telling the truth faster.” She doesn’t look directly at you, which is how you know it’s meant for you anyway.

Your mom chooses only one to share. She lays her slip flat on the table. “Keep: our table open.” She folds the other two, sliding “Release” into the dish and “Begin” into her pocket. Her look says private, and everyone nods.

When your turn comes, you clear your throat. “Keep: My family," you say. "And Rebekah.” You hear her inhale sharply beside you. “Release: making stupid assumptions about people based on nothing... Every time I do that the damn game proves me wrong.” Your dad winces in sympathy, your mom inclines her head in steady acknowledgment. “Begin: ask for help before I need rescuing.”

“About time,” Maddy teases, but her smile softens it.

Then all eyes go to Rebekah. She holds her slips stacked neatly, edges aligned. “I know I don’t have to share these,” she says, glancing at your mom, “but I want to.”

Your family watches her closely, eager to hear what she has to say.

Rebekah lifts the first slip. “Keep: us." She looks at you intently. And keep choosing what I want.” Her voice is firm, and you feel heat rise in your chest.

Her “Release” she hesitates over, then reads anyway. “Release: saying yes because I’m afraid of no.” The silence that follows is deep but not heavy; it’s respect. Your mom reaches across and touches her wrist once, wordless.

For “Begin,” Rebekah doesn’t read it aloud. Instead, she folds it twice and places it in your hand. “Just for you,” she murmurs. You tuck it into your pocket like it’s a precious gem.

The dish moves around the circle, “Release” slips folded in, one by one. Your dad hands you the fireplace lighter. “Captain, if you would.”

You light the edges. The papers curl, blackening, smoke lifting into the room. Together you watch your decisions to let things you no longer need go burn away to nothing.

The night flows into music and half-played board games, into Maddy making Rebekah try ginger ale “the right way” and your dad arguing with the countdown hosts as if they can hear him. Midnight creeps close without any of you noticing until the television begins its final seconds.

When the numbers fall, everyone seems to find who they mean to stand beside. Your dad pulls your mom close, promising aloud that this will be the year he finally stops swearing at tools. Maddy clinks her soda against Rebekah’s glass. “New year, new co-conspirator,” she declares.

At the stroke of twelve, the neighborhood erupts. Fireworks crack, dogs bark, voices cheer. Maddy shrieks “Happy New Year!” in your ear, and you turn to Rebekah. She turns to you. The kiss you share is not casual tradition but an intimate claiming and promise.

When you part, your mother hugs Rebekah tight, whispering something only she hears. Your dad adds a careful pat to her shoulder and a simple, “Stay as long as you want.” Rebekah's smile shows she appreciates that.

Later, after the chaos quiets, you sit together on the porch , the chill of the snowy night biting at you. You pull Rebekah’s folded slip from your pocket and ask silently if you should read it. She nods. The words inside are simple: Begin: trust my no, and my yes.

You look up, meet her gaze, and understand that this is the resolution she needed most.

When you go back inside, the house smells faintly of smoke from the dish, and your family looks settled into the year already — your mom tidying, your dad fussing with neon labels, Maddy sprawled with snacks. Rebekah squeezes your hand, and for the first time since she arrived at your door, you see something in her eyes that isn’t fear or defiance. It’s hope.