Dirty Christmas
Penelope froze, peeking through the cracked door.
There he was, Henry Gusto, broader and more rugged than the boyish photos Mrs. Gusto kept on the mantel. His dark hair was tousled from the wind, his sharp jawline shadowed with stubble, and those piercing blue eyes scanned the foyer with a mix of nostalgia and weariness.
"Henry! My boy!" Mrs. Gusto exclaimed, rushing forward to envelop him in a hug. Mr. Gusto clapped him on the back, chuckling. "Look at you, all grown up and successful. Canada treating you well?"