A calmness spills through the Charter household.

It seeps through the mistletoe, flows downs the stairs and finds its way into the branches of meticulously decorated Christmas tree.

The family sits on their overstuffed couch. Christmas Eve. The smell of cinnamon rolls, almost done, waffs around, teasing the family of four.

Bliss. Grandma is dead.

“Beauty in family,” says mother Kendra Charter. “That’s what this time of the year is about.”

Ding. The cinnamon rolls have finished. The younger of the two Charter sons, Davey, runs to the kitchen.

“Wait for me,” Kendra calls after him. “I’ll let you frost them.”

She stops in the kitchen door frame, and looks back. She catches her husband, Patrick, staring back at her.

“Pat, I’m thankful for everything you’ve given us,” she says to her husband of 23 years. “But most of all, I’m glad for what you took away this year.”

Patrick looks down, smiling to himself. He runs his hand through his the blond rungs of his older son’s hair.

“Walt, you’re going to have a family of your own one day,” he says. “And you’ll think you’ve learned the meaning of sacrifice. But then a moment comes along, a rewarding breath, and you get a quick glimpse into clockwork of life.”

Walt looks up at his father.

“When do you think Santa will come tonight, dad?”

Patrick Charter closes his eyes.

“He already has.”