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Autumn and her husband Jorge swing their twins Olivia and Charlotte back and forth as they walk, the girls giggling and breaking out into song as the lights sparkle and dance around us. When Autumn turns, even in her winter coat, you can see her baby bump in profile.

Kristin is my other sister, unmarried and without kids, but with a successful law firm and seriously looking into embarking on motherhood solo. My mom doesn’t love the sound of that, but my other sisters—despite their loving and doting husbands—are very much in the “you can do it, girl” camp.

Then there’s me. The hot mess in the middle of the group, the one who was crying when she was picked up from the airport and crying in her room last night. The one who is desperately trying not to cry right now.

Because, despite everything—my mom making my favorite meal and my dad putting on my favorite movies, and my sisters all trying their best to cheer me up—I don’t feel any better.

After my conversation with Poppy, I went back to my quiet apartment and packed two suitcases for the trip. A carry-on for me, and a checked bag for all the gifts I’ve been working on throughout the year. Hats for my nieces and nephews—one frog, one dragon, one flower, and one dog. A frog hat for my niece, and a dragon hat for my nephew—their favorite animals.

Felted slippers for my sisters, each in their favorite colors. A matching set for mom and dad, plus a knitted sweater for the family dog. All that, of course, with a couple of new toys for the kids.

Moreno Toys, I realized, as I wrapped and packed them.

I’d also realized that this Christmas might be a repeat of the baby shower. Me with far too much time on my hands, making all these elaborate things for everyone else.

“Camille!” Bianca says now, throwing her arm around my shoulder and pulling me in tight. “Why aren’t you singing? It’s an affront to the people of this street if you don’t sing!”

I laugh as she jostles me around and belt out a few lines of “Jingle Bell Rock,” but the moment she has to return her attention to Amelia, a frown settles over my face again. I can’t help it. Anytime I’m not actively engaged in something else, the frown just tugs right back at my lips.

It feels like my arms and legs are heavier than usual. Like it’s harder for me to even walk along, let alone put a pep in my step.

Apparently it’s so noticeable that Mom came to my bedroom last night with a glass of warm milk, her lips pressed into that half-frown, half-smile that I remember from being a kid. The one that says I know it all sucks now, but I promise it’s going to be okay.

We stop and watch two houses as they play a rock song, trading the riffs back and forth with bright, patterned lights and zippy one-liners. It makes my nieces and nephews squeal with delight. It makes me want to pull my coat tighter around myself and sit down right in the snow.

As we watch the light show, I can’t stop feeling sorry for myself.

How did I let this happen? How did I let myself develop feelings for a man who would always put work above me? I saw it that night in his living room, when we were about to kiss and he took the call from Chris Moreno instead. It was right there in my face, and I closed my eyes, pretending it wasn’t there.

Maybe this is what it means to be an adult.

To break off one engagement because the spark just wasn’t there. To lose another fling because, even with the spark, that man just doesn’t want the same things as me.

Doesn’t want me.

“Cami, baby,” Mom says, scooting up next to me and passing me a thermos of hot chocolate. “Try to enjoy the show, honey.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I take the hot chocolate, stupidly thinking about the hot chocolate Patrick gave me when we were out in the snow, under the northern lights. The memories are so strong, and I tell myself that they’ll fade. That eventually, I’ll be able to do things without thinking of him.

That I’ll find my perfect Hallmark ending here, just like Poppy said.

“You’re right,” I say to Mom, taking a sip of the hot chocolate and trying to open my mind. If I’m enjoying the experience, I’ll get to meet my small-town boy. I’ll bump into a man and look into his eyes and realize it’s meant to be. “Sorry for being such a bummer.”

“Oh, sweetie, you’re not a bummer. Everyone goes through stuff like this. Remember when your sister broke up with Dorian Granger? God, that lasted for eons.”

“We do not say that name!” Kristin shouts, appearing behind us, shaking her head and taking the hot chocolate from my hand. “I can’t believe you would ruin my Christmas by saying that name.”

Mom and Kristin laugh.

The taste of the hot cocoa lingers on my tongue, and try as I might to have an open mind and live in the moment, all I can think about is Patrick.

It’s almost as though I can hear his voice.

“What is that?” Mom asks.

At the same time, Dad says, “What is going on down there?”

My entire family turns to look down the street, to take in the chaos of a man running down the sidewalk, his coat flapping in the wind behind him. An older woman handing out cookies and hot chocolate tells him to slow down.