Page 88 of It's Not All Fake

Chloe hands me her end of the blanket and then sinks back onto the couch, pulling my mother into a tight hug. “Thank you,” she murmurs into my mother’s shoulder.

“It’s beautiful, Mom,” I add, enjoying the sight of my mother’s proud grin.

“You know, your signs are highly compatible,” Mom explains as Chloe resettles beside her.

“I know,” Chloe replies, her gaze meeting mine as I gently hand the blanket back to her.

I can’t help but smile because I also know. Our wordless exchange is enough to make me a believer in all things fantastic and beyond our understanding.

Chloe’s father reaches over to pat her back gently. “Your mom would have adored this,” he says softly.

“There’s one more gift for Chloe,” I announce, catching her curious glance. Her expression mixes anticipation with a hint of suspicion.

With a teasing smile, I leave her hanging and step out to fetch the surprise.

As Nat King Cole’s "The Christmas Song" fills the room, I return with a box as big as a refrigerator, festively wrapped in green and red.

“What’s this?” Chloe eyes me with uncertainty, approaching the towering box.

I shrug playfully. “It’s got your name on it.”

She’s not buying my ignorance for a minute, but she humors me. I lean against the back of the couch, watching as she tears off the wrapping paper and opens the box. Confusion crosses her face as she peers inside and can’t immediately find anything.

“It’s empty, Liam!” my mother exclaims.

“You forget the present?” Michael teases, his laughter filling the room.

Then, Chloe spots the piece of paper at the bottom of the box. She retrieves it, her glance shifting back to me, filled with curiosity and a hint of suspicion as she unfolds the note.

“Before you, I was an empty box,” she begins to read aloud. Her eyes flick to mine, a seriousness in them now as she tries to comprehend my meaning.

“Too focused on data, numbers, and stocks,” she breathes a laugh, as she continues:

But you filled me up with patient smiles,

A heap of kind words and help through trials.

You poured in laughter and patched up holes when it rained,

You added padding for the spots that were rough and pained.

Chloe’s voice breaks and she looks up at me, her eyes wet as a tear rolls down her cheek. She takes a breath:

You didn’t stop until I was overflowing and full,

I can’t thank you enough for making me whole.

This year, your last gift isn’t in this box.

Try looking again in your hanging red socks.

“Liam…” she breathes, her gaze lifting to mine as tears stream down her cheeks.

“Did you write that, Liam?” my mother asks, her voice echoing across the room.

“I did,” I answer her, but I don’t take my eyes off Chloe, feeling the weight of the moment.

“That was so beautiful, my God,” Mom exclaims. “You used to write me poems in middle school,” she adds, her voice thick with emotion and I hear her blowing her nose.

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