Through the frost, parked next to the snowy curb on the opposite side of the street, was the blurry silhouette of an old blue pickup truck. I could see the faint glow of the exhaust pluming into the freezing morning air. The engine was running.

He was waiting. For nineteen years, I had stared at the empty space on my mantel, feeling the weight of the piece I was missing. I looked down at the wooden manger in my hand, feeling the solid, heavy truth of it against my palm.

I reached out, my fingers entirely numb, and flipped the switch for the porch light.