“I told her I’d seen your house,” Carolyn said. “On the national Christmas special. I told her it was one of the most beautiful homes I’d ever seen in my life. And then I asked her, ‘Linda, why on earth weren’t you up there tonight?'”
I closed my eyes.
“And she went very quiet,” Carolyn said. “For a long time. And then she asked me, ‘Where did you see it?'”
“So I told her. HGTV. The Christmas Eve special. The very last segment. The finale.”
“And then I asked her, ‘Linda, you honestly didn’t know about this?'”
“And she said, ‘No.'”
Carolyn was quiet for a moment.
“Miranda, I want you to know something. I described the house to her. She asked me to. She said, ‘Carolyn, tell me what it looks like. Every room.’ So I told her. The windows. The stone fireplace. The big old beams. The greenhouse. The view of the mountains. All of it.”
I leaned back against the wall.
“And when I was done,” Carolyn said, “your mother was quiet again. For a long while. And then she said, ‘That sounds like Miranda.'”
I couldn’t breathe.
“She said it real slow,” Carolyn said. “‘That sounds exactly like something Miranda would build.'”
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.
The hallway was quiet. The party sounds drifted in from the other rooms. The jazz. The voices. The house holding all of it, exactly the way it was built to.
“And honey,” Carolyn said, “the whole time I was describing it, she kept stopping me. She kept saying, ‘Yes. That’s Miranda.’ The beams. She said, ‘Of course. She always loved old wood. She used to collect driftwood at the lake when she was little and line it up on her windowsill.’ The greenhouse. She said, ‘Of course. She grew basil and rosemary on her apartment windowsill all through college. She always wanted a greenhouse.'”
Carolyn’s voice got softer.
“And the windows. When I told her about the windows, she didn’t say anything for the longest time. And then she said, ‘She used to draw houses on the car window when she was little. In the rain. I always told her to stop.'”
I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the hallway floor.
“Your mother knows you very well, Miranda,” Carolyn said.
She said it simply. Not as an accusation. Just as something she’d noticed.
Your mother knows you very well.
“Yes,” I said. My voice cracked. “She does.”
“I just thought you should know that,” Carolyn said. “I hope I didn’t overstep.”
“You didn’t. Thank you for calling, Mrs. Marsh.”
“I hope you had a beautiful Christmas, honey.”
“I did,” I said. “I really did.”
“Goodnight, Miranda. Biscuit says Merry Christmas.”
Her golden retriever. In the Santa hat.
I laughed. Through the tears. And she hung up.
Specialty: Quiet Comebacks & Personal Justice
David Reynolds focuses on stories where underestimated individuals regain control of their lives. His writing centers on measured decisions rather than dramatic outbursts — emphasizing preparation, patience, and the long game. His characters don’t shout; they act.