Cedar & Sugar | Joanna "Jo" Mercer.

The kitchen smelled like flour and cold air and pine sap dragged in on boots. Joanna Mercer stood at the counter with her sleeves rolled and her hair pulled back in a lazy tie that was already failing. Snow tapped the window in small, impatient clicks. A YouTube video played on a phone propped against a jar of screws, some cheerful stranger explaining how to make “easy Christmas cookies” with the kind of confidence that never survived a real kitchen.

Rosie climbed onto the stool like it was a mountain. Eight years old and determined about it. She leaned so close to the screen her curls nearly dipped into the bowl.

“Okay,” the video chirped. “First, add the chocolate chips.”

Joanna slid the bag across the counter. “Just a handful.”

Rosie nodded solemnly. Then tipped the entire bag.

“Whoa. Hey. Kid.” Joanna reached out, too late. Chips clattered into the dough like gravel. “That’s not a handful.”

Rosie froze, eyes wide, then slowly looked up at her mom. “It said chocolate chips.”

“It did not say all the chocolate chips.”

Rosie thought about this very seriously. Then shrugged. “More is better.”

Joanna stared at the bowl. Then snorted. “Can’t argue with that logic.”

Rosie grinned and immediately stole a fingerful of dough. She stuck it in her mouth before Joanna could stop her.

“Rosie.”

“It’s fine,” Rosie said around the dough. “I didn’t die.”

Joanna’s mouth twitched. “Give it time.”

She stirred anyway, strong wrist folding the mess together. The dough stuck to her knuckles, to the scars that never quite faded. The video kept talking. Joanna wasn’t listening.

This is already out of control.

Flour dusted the counter like snowdrifts. Rosie sneezed directly into it.

“Bless you,” Joanna said automatically.

Rosie sneezed again. “Why do we have to bake them?”

“Because raw dough isn’t dinner.”

“But it could be.”

Joanna gave her a look. Rosie held it for a second, then cracked.

“Okay, okay.”

Joanna dragged the bowl closer. The dough had turned into a dense, tacky mass, heavy like wet cement and studded with way too much chocolate. It was too thick for... anything that isn't hands.

Definitely not what the video was showing anymore.

"Okay," Joanna said, greasing her palms with a little butter. "Hands it is. Roll them into balls. Like play-doh."

"Got it."

They dug in. The dough was cold and heavy, clinging to their skin in a greasy, sugary film. Joanna worked methodically, rolling steady, even spheres and placing them in neat rows on the baking sheet. Rosie went for chaos. She grabbed a fistful of dough, squeezed it until it oozed between her fingers, and slammed it onto the tray.

"That’s a big cookie," Joanna noted.

"It’s a mega-cookie," Rosie corrected. She grabbed another chunk, mashing it, pinching corners and pulling bits out until it looked like a lumpy car crash.

Rosie patted the tray. "This one is a reindeer."

Joanna squinted at the vaguely oblong pile of dough. A chocolate chip poked out of what might have been a head. Or a leg.

"That reindeer looks like he got in a fight."

"Santa fights people."

Joanna huffed quietly, wiping a streak of dough off her wrist. "Santa does not fight people."

"How do you know?"

Joanna didn’t answer. She rolled another perfect sphere, placed it on the sheet, and slid the full tray into the oven. Heat blasted her face.

“Okay,” she muttered, wiping her hands on a rag. “Twenty minutes.”

“So,” Rosie said. “What are we getting Mommy?”

Joanna paused.

“We’re not talking about that.”

“Yes we are.”

“No, we’re not.”

Rosie planted her elbows on the counter. “You said we could.”

“I said maybe.”

“That means yes.”

Joanna sighed through her nose. “We can’t decide it without… thinking.”

Rosie’s eyes lit up. “I know. A sweater.”

“A sweater.”

“With ducks.”

“No.”

“With cats.”

“No.”

“With glitter.”

“Absolutely not.”

Rosie laughed. “Why not?”

“Because glitter never leaves. It just waits.”

They argued while the timer ticked down. Rosie suggested increasingly impractical things. Joanna shut them down one by one. A sword. A drone. A hundred candles. A horse.

“A horse?” Joanna repeated.

“Mini horse.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Where would we put it?”

Rosie gestured vaguely. “Outside.”

Joanna rubbed her face. “We are not buying Mommy a horse.”

The conversation went in circles. It always did. Rosie leaned on her mom’s shoulder at some point, chin pressing into flannel.

“She likes cozy stuff,” Rosie said finally, quieter.

Joanna nodded. “Yeah.”

“She likes when things are fixed.”

Joanna smiled, small and slow. “Yeah.”

Rosie squinted at the counter like it might answer her. She tapped a doughy finger against the wood, leaving a faint print. “What if we get her those special scissors. The ones you said are only for fabric. So she can fix blankets and stuff. Or like—”

Oh. That’s… actually not bad.

“—seven sew-sew—sew-ing kits,” Rosie pushed through, victorious. “One for every day of the week. So she never runs out.”

…Never mind.

The minutes slid by unnoticed. The timer beeped.

They both jumped.

“Oh no,” Rosie gasped. “They’re burning.”

“They’re fine,” Joanna said, already moving. She pulled the tray out. Steam rose. The cookies were… cookies. Mostly.

Rosie cheered. “We did it!”

“We survived,” Joanna corrected.

They let them cool for approximately thirty seconds before starting the icing. Red, green, white. It went everywhere. Rosie squeezed too hard and a line of icing shot across the counter.

“Rosie.”

“It was an accident.”

Joanna wiped icing off her arm. “The wall disagrees.”

Rosie giggled and stuck a finger in the green. “This one’s a snowman.”

“That’s a blob.”

“It’s abstract.”

Joanna leaned in, steady hand adding a dot for an eye. “Now it’s a sad blob.”

Rosie tried to draw a wreath and ended up with something that looked like a snake. Joanna tried to fix it and made it worse. They laughed until Joanna had to brace a hand on the counter.

Flour streaked Rosie’s cheek. Icing smeared Joanna’s jaw. Sugar stuck to everything.

Keys jingled at the door.

They both froze.

Rosie’s eyes went wide. “Oh no.”

Joanna looked down at herself. Then at the kitchen. Then back at her daughter.

Too late.

“Hide,” Rosie whispered.

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

The door handle turned. The mess was undeniable. The cookies half-painted. The counter wrecked. Joanna’s hands sticky and white.

She straightened anyway, shoulders squaring out of habit, a laugh already in her throat.

“Okay,” she murmured. “We tell the truth.”

Rosie nodded, serious. Then immediately tried to wipe her face with her sleeve, smearing icing further.

Joanna closed her eyes for half a second. Then opened them, turning toward the sound, flour and sugar and Christmas chaos clinging to her like proof.