The door slammed behind her, and the room was eerily quiet.
Later that night, Trent and I sat by the fireplace, the glow of the flames casting shadows across the room.
I was still clutching the earrings, unable to decide what to do with them.
“I’m sorry, Elle,” Trent said softly. “I should’ve stood up to her sooner.”
I shook my head. “It’s not your fault.
She just… she couldn’t let go of the past. And maybe she didn’t know how to move forward.”
He took my hand. “Yeah, maybe.
Anyway, let’s just forget about everything and not ruin our mood. Are you in the mood for some holiday cheer?”
“Of course,” I whispered.
Over the next year, something surprising happened. Judith reached out — not with snide remarks or manipulative apologies, but with genuine remorse.
It started with a simple message.
“Elle,” it read, “I realize I’ve hurt you deeply, and I’m ashamed. I don’t expect forgiveness, but I want to try to earn your trust.”
It wasn’t easy at first. Trust is a fragile thing, especially when it’s been shattered.
But Judith kept showing up: calling to check in, inviting me to lunch, even asking for my advice on little things. Slowly, my walls came down.
By the time Christmas rolled around again, I felt a tentative warmth toward her. When she handed me a small box during our holiday gathering, I braced myself.
But inside was a knitted muffler, hat, and gloves — all in my favorite colors.
“I made these for you,” she said quietly. “I wanted to give you something from the heart this year.”
Tears stung my eyes as I pulled out the soft wool. “Thank you,” I whispered.
“They’re perfect.”
This time, the warmth of Christmas wasn’t marred by tension or rivalry. It was just… peaceful. Judith and I weren’t perfect, but we were trying.
And that, I realized, was the best gift of all.
Do you have any opinions on this?
