"Mommy got it for me," Ivy said. "It's mine. Nobody left it here."
Matt looked at the cardigan, and at his daughter, and Renée saw his throat move.
"It's perfect, Bug," he said. "It's exactly right."
"Not too much sparkle," Ivy explained. "Just medium."
"Medium is the best amount."
They decorated the tree. The ornaments came out of their tissue paper one by one, each with its story, the glass pickle and the tiny wooden sled from Renée's father, the two canning jar lids with I LOVE YOU THIS MUCH around their edges, which Ivy hung side by side on the same low branch, on their matching hook. Matt lifted her up so she could put the star on top. Nat King Cole played on the speaker in the kitchen. The cinnamon rolls sat on the coffee table, half-eaten.
And then Ivy, digging in the storage bin in the corner for more ornaments, came out with the lights.
They were the same lights. Renée had seen them in January when she packed the decorations away, still knotted, an enormous green snarl, and she had not been able to throw them out and had not been able to bring herself to untangle them, and so she had simply put them back in the bin the way they were and carried the bin down to the basement and left them there all year. She had bought new lights for the tree. These were the old ones, the ones for the porch railing.
"These are all messed up," Ivy announced, holding them up with both arms.
Matt looked at them. Then he looked at Renée.
"I can do it," he said quietly. "If you want."