We Built Our First Gingerbread House Together—And I Didn’t Know It Would Be Our Last Night Under the Same Roof
The kitchen was a mess—peppermint wrappers everywhere, Christmas music looping, her laughter filling every corner. She sat cross-legged, sorting gumdrops, holding up a gummy bear and asking, “Does this look like Santa’s dog?”
I watched her, knowing something she didn’t: the custody ruling had arrived. I hadn’t told her. This was “Daddy’s gingerbread night”—no court dates, no heartbreak, just gumdrops and sliding rooftops.
We built the house together, laughing, her tiny hands pressing candy into icing. “Don’t let go, Daddy,” she warned. “I won’t,” I promised, though tomorrow I would have no choice.
The next morning, I packed her things. She cried, whispering, “I don’t want to go.” I held her tight, whispering promises I wasn’t sure I could keep.
Weeks later, she arrived with a patched-up gingerbread house. “Mom said it belongs with both of us,” she said. I realized love doesn’t vanish—it adapts. That crooked, sticky house became our tradition.
Even broken things can stand if you keep patching them with care. Every Christmas since, we’ve done just that.
