Annie,
Merry Christmas. I’m writing this in July with the fan going, which feels backward.
When I was a boy we got one present each and an orange in the toe of the stocking. I thought that orange was something.
You were four the year you got up at three in the morning and ate every chocolate off the tree. We found you asleep under it with foil stuck to your pajamas. Your mother still has the picture on her phone and she shows people.
Keep making the cinnamon rolls. The ones from the tube are fine. That’s what we always had.
Now go wake somebody up.
Dad