Objectively, Jim knows he hasn’t always loved her. He hasn’t even always known her. It wasn’t even love at first sight, although it was close. He fell in love with her a long time ago, but he knows it wasn’t always that way.

Fleetingly, he tries to remember what that felt like, not knowing her, not loving her.

He watches her silently. He doesn’t want to disturb her, and he enjoys this rare moment just to observe. She is intent, sitting at the kitchen table drawing. The lights on the Christmas decorations illuminate the few mutinous curls that have escaped from her ponytail. They create a halo-like glow around her head, and he smiles at the sight. How many times has he called her an angel? His angel.

The kitchen table is one of the few pieces of furniture that remain in the house from his childhood. He remembers sitting exactly where she is now, decorating cookies with his brothers or writing his letters to Santa. Even that is hard to remember; his younger self is a faded wraith in comparison to her vibrancy and life. This is her house now. 

She is beautiful, but he knows he is biased about that. She makes him laugh and she makes him proud. She is constantly growing and evolving, and she delights him in new ways every day. She is the most amazing gift he’s ever been given.

She tilts her head in concentration. It is a familiar gesture, and his heart floods with contentment that warms away the winter chill. As though sensing the change in temperature, she lifts her head and sees him there. She smiles, and it is his smile.

“Come see what I drew, Daddy,” she says. “It’s you, me, and Mommy by the Christmas tree. I wanna put it in her stocking.”

Jim moves to his daughter’s side. “It’s beautiful, baby,” he says.