Still, I stayed quiet for Dad’s sake. He looked genuinely happy, and I didn’t want to ruin that. My mom had passed away a decade ago, when I was just seven. I told myself I could tolerate Mirabel—at least for him.

It had been just Dad and me for so long. If Mirabel made him feel less lonely, maybe it was worth it.

At least, that’s what I believed until about a week before Christmas.

That evening, Dad pulled me aside, his face oddly serious but with a playful spark in his eyes.

“Serenya,” he said, holding out a gold-wrapped box tied with a red velvet ribbon, “I’ve got something really special for you this year, sweetheart.”