Every Christmas, they arrived the same way.
Front door at 5:58 p.m. Sharp knocks. Big smiles. Big hugs that lasted exactly as long as it took them to step inside and scan my hands—like my fingers were a clock counting down to ten thousand dollars.
I’m not guessing.
A quick photo by the tree. Someone saying, “Grandpa, you look great!” Then the little pause—just long enough for their eyes to drift to the side table where I kept the envelopes.
Red ribbon. Thick paper. Their favorite part of the holiday.
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