My mother stood before the judge with both hands pressed against the table.

The next Christmas, I brought my own bag between Mom’s house and Dad’s.

I packed a book, my blue and green bracelet from Maya, and the gardening notebook Grandma had given me. Dad checked whether I had my scarf. Mom texted to say she had made soup.

I knew where I was going, when I would come back, and whom to call if plans changed.

That might not sound exciting. To me, it felt wonderful.

On Christmas morning at Mom’s, we opened gifts in our pajamas. Grandma was there, sitting in the chair by the tree with a blanket over her knees. She looked stronger each week.

Mom gave me a new set of pencils for drawing plants. Grandma gave me seeds for spring.

I gave Mom the ceramic house I had made in art class. I had kept it on my shelf for months because I wanted to know exactly what to write on the bottom.

She turned it over.

Both roofs. Both homes. All my love.

Her eyes filled. She looked at me before she spoke.

“I love it,” she said. “Thank you.”

I waited for the sadness that used to follow her tears. It didn’t come. She hugged me and placed the house on the mantel where she could see it.

At noon, Dad came to pick me up. Mom invited him inside for a bowl of soup. He accepted. Grandma told him to take seconds before he had finished his first bowl.

I sat at the table listening to them talk about the weather and my school project. Nobody asked me to carry a message across the room.

Before we left, Mom helped me put on my coat.

“Call when you get there,” she said.

“I will.”

She kissed my forehead. “Have fun.”

She meant it.

At Dad’s, Aunt Renee and my cousins were already waiting. We opened presents, played a game nobody could agree on, and ate dinner later than Dad planned because the rolls took longer to bake.

I called Mom after we ate. She showed me where she had put the ceramic house. Grandma waved from the couch.

“I’ll see you Wednesday,” Mom said.

“See you Wednesday.”

When I hung up, Dad asked if I wanted to take the telescope outside. The sky was clear.

We carried it to the little patch of grass behind his apartment. I looked at the moon while he checked a chart on his phone. Aunt Renee came out with blankets, and my cousins fought over whose turn was next.

Dad stood behind me so he could steady the telescope if it moved.

“You can let go,” I told him.

“I know.”

He stepped back.

I adjusted the lens myself. The moon came into focus, bright against the dark sky.

For a moment, I thought about the courtroom. I remembered being afraid that telling the truth would make my mother stop loving me. I remembered reaching for Dad’s hand because I couldn’t bear to sit there alone.

I knew now that Mom had listened, even when it hurt. Dad had listened too. They had made room for me to love them both.

“Can you see it?” Dad asked.

“Yes.”

I moved aside so he could look. Then my youngest cousin took a turn, and I showed her how to adjust the lens.

When we went inside, I put Grandma’s notebook on the shelf beside my bed. I had a drawer there for the things I carried from Mom’s house. At Mom’s, I had a place for the things I brought from Dad’s.

Neither space was empty when I left it.

Before bed, Dad sat in the chair by my desk.

“Happy Christmas, Ariana.”

“Happy Christmas, Dad.”

“Did you have a good day?”

I thought about Mom’s soup, Grandma’s seeds, the noisy game with my cousins, and the clear moon outside.

“Yes,” I said. “I felt good all day.”

Dad smiled. “I’m glad.”

I climbed under the blanket. He turned off the lamp and left my door a little open, the way I liked it.

I no longer had to watch the faces of the people I loved before saying what I felt. I could tell Mom I missed Dad. I could tell Dad I missed Mom. I could be happy in one house without hurting the people in the other.