Page 67 of Ho Ho Mafioso

We stepped back to admire our masterpiece when we were done: a gingerbread house slanted like it had survived a natural disaster, dripping with icing, decorated with gumdrops placed by someone who had zero architectural vision.

“Wow,” Gianina praised, pretending it wasn’t a monstrosity.

Our son clapped his frosting-smeared hands. “We did it! Can we make gingerbread every year?”

“Every year,” I said, hoisting him onto my hip. “It’s a tradition.”

“Our tradition,” Gianina emphasized, threading our fingers together.

Nico smiled like that was the best promise in the world.

And standing there—gingerbread chaos, snow falling softly beyond the windows, my family pressed close under the glow of warm cabin lights—I realized something.

The cabin didn’t feel like a place we had to escape to anymore.

It felt like home.

THE END