✴ Scarlett ✴
The Matthews' dining room was a warm haven against the chill of the Wintervale night. The room glowed with soft candlelight, and the scent of roasted vegetables and fresh-baked rolls filled the air. My mother, Margot, had outdone herself as usual. The table was impeccably set with her best china, each place adorned with a sprig of holly.
“Scarlett, could you pass the gravy?” my father, Henry, asked as he carved into the roast beef. His face was lit with the kind of holiday cheer that always made him look years younger.
“Of course,” I said, handing over the silver gravy boat. Dinner at home was always lively, especially around Christmas. Tonight was no exception. The conversation buzzed with excitement over the upcoming holiday events, the air electric with plans and anticip
