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It’s a gingerbread-house kit. Not the kind you give a child. The enormous box features a Victorian mansion that would look right at home on the cover of a Dickens novel. Gables, turrets, intricate latticework, a wraparound porch with candy cane columns. The description on the side promises “over 100 decorative pieces,” including “handcrafted sugar windows,” “royal icing mix,” and “assorted gourmet candies for detailing.”
The price tag reads $89.99.
“No,” I say.
“Vince.”
“Absolutely not.”
She picks up the box, hugging it to her chest. “Look at it. It has a porch. A porch, Vince.”
She looks at me over the top of the box, her dark eyes pleading. “Please? It’s Christmas. I bought all my gifts myself, but this could be something we do together. We could build it after Christmas when we have time. It would be fun.”
I look at the box. I look at her face. I look at the box again. “Do you have any idea how difficult that thing is going to be to put together?”
“Nope,” she says cheerfully. “That’s why I have you.”
I sigh. “Fine. But I’m reserving the right to say I told you so when it collapses.”
She beams. I take the box from her and add it to the growing collection of items in my cart, and she bounces on her toes once, twice, then darts forward and hugs me around the waist, her mittened hands pressing into the small of my back.
“Thank you,” she says into my coat. “You’re the best. Even when you’re a Grinch.”
“Don’t mention it.”
We stop at the coffee shop on the way back to the car and order two lattes—vanilla for her, plain for me. We stand at the counter waiting while the barista steams milk, and I look out through the window at the Christmasy charm of the town. A man in a Santa hat walks past carrying a potted poinsettia. Two kids are building a snowman in the empty lot next to the post office.
“Today was good,” Sophie says, accepting her latte from the barista. She takes a sip, leaving a faint smudge of lip gloss on the lid. “I’m glad we did this.”
“Me too.”
She bumps her shoulder against mine as we walk back to the car, our steps falling into sync on the shoveled sidewalk.
The kitchen island is soon covered in shopping bags, and while Sophie takes her gifts upstairs, I put the kettle on and start finding places for everything else. The Christmas tree is lit in the living room, and the house is pleasantly warm after spending the afternoon outside.
Sophie returns wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, carrying the gingerbread-house kit.
“Where should we put this?” she asks. “Somewhere prominent. Somewhere inspirational.”
“How about the garage?”
“Vince.”
“Fine.” I point to the shelf above the microwave. “There. Where it can remind us of our terrible financial decisions.”
She climbs onto a chair and sets the box on the shelf, carefully positioning it so the illustration faces outward.
“There,” she announces, stepping back to admire it. “We’re going to build the most beautiful gingerbread house in the history of Christmas.”
She laughs and helps me put away the rest of the shopping. We spend a few minutes discussing dinner before deciding on pasta, and I get the sauce going while Sophie makes garlic bread. Christmas music plays quietly from the speakers, and she sings along as she works, occasionally stopping to tell me something about a professor, her roommate, or a book she thinks I should read.
After dinner, Sophie announces that we’re watching a Christmas movie. She already has one in mind.
“Is it about a woman from the city who moves to a small town and falls in love with a Christmas-tree farmer?” I ask.
“No.”
“Is the man secretly a prince?”
