Page 16 of Daddy's Little Christmas

A small placard beneath the frame held Henry’s words, written in careful script:I drew him because I thought I’d never see him again.

I felt the truth of it settle in my chest—quiet, heavy, undeniable.

Loving someone like that—always aware the world might take them—must have been exhausting.

And still, he’d drawn him anyway.

As if putting him on paper was a way of refusing to let him disappear.

Further along, there were letters. Not all of them, or originals—copies, transcriptions—but enough.

We have to be careful.

I miss you already.

If we’re brave enough to stay, we have to be brave enough to leave.

Photos followed their timeline. Harlem streets. The cabin half-buried in snow. The lodge leaning but standing. Lanterns glowing in the dark like held breath.

A group shot caught my attention—people gathered outside the lodge, bundled close, faces bright despite the cold. Couples. Singles. Someone with a baby balanced on a hip. Someone laughing.

Winter Lantern Walk, 1974.

“They didn’t advertise,” the man at the desk said quietly, appearing beside me without startling me. “But word travels when people feel safe.”

I nodded, throat tight.

“They didn’t call it activism,” he continued. “They called it making room.”

I stood there longer than I meant to. Letting it sink in.

This wasn’t just history. It was evidence.

Proof that two men had loved each other enough to choose each other. Enough to build something that outlived them. Enough to leave a place behind where people like me could walk in without apologizing for taking up space.

When I finally stepped back outside, the cold didn’t feel quite so sharp.

I stood on the porch for a moment, snow drifting lazily around me, and pressed my hands into my coat pockets.

Home wasn’t just a word here.

It was a decision.

And for the first time in a long while, I wondered—quietly, carefully—what it might feel like to choose it.

I started walking without a plan, letting my feet take me wherever the town opened up. The streets were calm, not empty. A few people passed with nods and smiles, the kind that didn’t ask anything of you.

The smell of sugar and spice pulled me toward a corner café before I even saw the sign: Sugar Plum Café.

Inside, warmth wrapped around me instantly. A woman stood behind the counter, tall and solid in a way that felt reassuring rather than imposing. Her sweater was a soft mustard yellow; her hair was braided close to her scalp and gathered up neatly, like a crown.

She looked up and smiled. Not the bright, practiced kind. Something quieter. Like she’d clocked me without weighing me.

“Afternoon,” she said. “You look like someone who’s been thinking hard.”

I huffed a quiet laugh. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to people who’ve done it themselves.” She tilted her head toward the menu board. “Coffee or cocoa? It’s that kind of day.”