When Ella returned home that evening, she stopped on the walkway and gasped dramatically. “Our sparkle broke!” she declared. I knelt beside her. “It didn’t break on its own. But it’s getting fixed.” Ella spotted Marlene standing stiffly on the porch, clutching a box of lights like it might burn her. “You’re the lady who doesn’t like sparkle,” she announced. Marlene’s face reddened. “I used to,” she murmured. Ella studied her with solemn seriousness only a child could manage.

Then she nodded. “Okay. You can help. But you have to be nice to our house.” And just like that, they had a treaty. The three of us spent hours re-stringing lights—crooked lines, mismatched colors, clips bending the wrong way. There were moments when Marlene cried quietly, and moments when she laughed at her own clumsy attempts. She clipped the wooden angel to the porch rail and said softly, “For a second… it feels like they’re here.” I rested a hand on her shoulder. “Maybe they are.” When the final strand flickered to life, casting a soft glow across the yard, it wasn’t perfect—but it was whole again. More importantly, it was shared.