Page 29 of One Night, Two Holidays
The latkes are delicious—our moms cooked them together using real Idaho potatoes. Not a frozen spud in sight.
Once the latke appetizers have been devoured and washed down with eggnog, it’s time to light the candles. I offered to bring my menorah with us, but Jack’s mom wanted to have one to keep here for future holidays.
I liked the idea of that, spending future holidays here with Jack and his family, the lights on their Christmas tree and the candles on the menorah shining bright in their window. Before the little kids go to bed, we’ll light Jack’s mom’s Advent wreath and set out cookies for Santa. And then maybe Jack and I will play a little strip dreidel on our own.
But first, Hanukkah. With Jack’s family and my family gathered around me, I light the shamash. My parents and I say the blessing, and Jack’s family repeats each phrase after us. Everyone but Sammy, who is singing the Happy Birthday song.
We invite Jack’s mom to light the candles, and she looks deeply honored as she takes the shamash from my hand and uses it to light the first night’s candle.
“Now, let’s eat!” Eddie says, corralling the kids into the dining room. The others follow, leaving Jack and I alone.
“Happy Hanukkah,” he says, giving me a kiss and handing me a wrapped box the size of an orange.
“What’s this?” We agreed to open presents with everyone tomorrow on Christmas morning and saved a few for the last nights of Hanukkah back home.
“It’s a Hanukkah present.” There’s a nervous glint in his eyes. “Open it.”
“Jack…”
“Let’s sit.”
I follow him toward the couch, my stomach flipping with apprehension and anticipation. “What did you do?” I ask as I untie the elaborate ribbons—blue and white and red and green. I open the top of the box and laugh—it’s filled with Hershey's kisses.
“Almost exactly what I wanted,” I say, echoing his words from long ago.
Jack nods at the box. “There’s more.”
Below the first layer of chocolates, I find a bright yellow and green compression sock.
“Look inside,” he says, and I slip my hand inside the sock, all the way down to the toes, where my fingers touch something cool and smooth.
A ring.
My breath catches as I pull it out, and I look up to see Jack, down on bended knee and gazing up at me, his blue eyes shining.
“Some might say it took an act of nature to bring us together,” he says, his voice low and steady. “But if you ask me, it was a miracle. Nessa, when we met, I was at the lowest point in my life, wondering if I was on the wrong path—but meeting you changed all that.”
Tears fill my eyes as I slip off the couch and kneel across from him.
“You showed me that what I have to offer is enough,” he continues. “You taught me that even in the toughest moments, there’s always hope.” He clears his throat, his own eyes shimmering. “You’re my light in the darkness. My miracle. And I don’t want to face a day without you by my side. Will you choose me, for the rest of our lives?”
“Always and forever,” I say, and he slips the ring on my finger before pulling me into a kiss.
“She said yes!” Nic shouts, and we’re suddenly surrounded by our family, laughter and cheers filling the room. I hold out my hand, letting everyone see the ring. The diamond shines as brightly as the menorah, casting rainbows across the room.
I look at Jack, at our families celebrating around us, and I feel like I’m getting a glimpse of our future. Our families getting closer, our traditions intertwining. Our own family growing as we add a baby or two of our own; the noise and the chaos and love growing every year. And I realize that this is the real miracle: not the grand gestures or perfect gifts. It’s in the quiet, imperfect, everyday choices—the decision to stay, to hope, to love. It’s in knowing that even when everything feels uncertain, we’ll keep choosing each other. That’s what keeps the light alive.
