The first Christmas was rough.
No ornaments. No traditions. No real plan.
Just a tree.
We made decorations out of whatever we had. Paper snowflakes. Sticks. Popcorn strung together. Things cut and taped together.
It didn't look like much.
But it was ours.
The second year, we opened the decoration box.
All those same handmade ornaments were inside.
A little worn. A little bent.
But real.
We hung them up again.
And it felt different.
Not like we were filling a gap.
Like we had built something.
From nothing.
That box mattered more than anything I could've bought.
Because it meant we made it through.