CHAPTER ONE
Dorchester Street, Summer 1981
The pink plastic skipping rope made a satisfying ‘thwap-thwap-thwap’ against the hot pavement, keeping perfect rhythm with the song I was singing. I can still see myself there, as clearly as if I’m watching from the shade of that old maple tree; a little girl in a strapless terry cloth romper, incongruously wearing black patent leather dress shoes that clicked against the sidewalk with each skip.
It was the kind of summer day that feels endless when you’re five years old. The sun blazed overhead, but the tree’s canopy created a cool pocket of shade that shifted and danced with each breeze. The yellow-striped handles of my jump rope were already sticky with heat and the enthusiasm of my grip. Somewhere down the street, a lawn mower droned. Mrs. Patterson’s sprinkler next door sent arcs of water across her emerald lawn in rhythmic ‘tick-tick-tick-tick-sssshhhhh’ patterns.
I was singing something, (probably a commercial jingle or a song from Sesame Street), completely absorbed in my game, counting my jumps, trying to beat yesterday’s record. In that moment, my whole world consisted of the rope’s rhythm, the shade’s coolness, and the simple joy of a perfect summer afternoon. Then the front door opened.
I heard it before I saw her. That distinctive creak of the screen door, followed by the slap of it closing. Emily stood on the front step, eight years old and wearing that particular expression I’d learned to dread. It was a look of gleeful malice, the smile of someone who possessed a secret and intended to weaponize it. My rope faltered mid-swing, the rhythm broken. She took her time descending the concrete steps, drawing out the moment. Her feet, clad in cork-heeled sandals, made deliberate ‘clop-clop’ sounds. When she reached me, she tilted her head, her smile widening.
“I know something you don’t know,” she said in a sing-song voice.
My stomach tightened. Nothing good ever followed those words from Emily. Still, I tried to sound casual, nonchalant. “Oh yeah? What’s that?” She leaned in close, and I could smell the grape Hubba Bubba on her breath. Her voice dropped to a theatrical whisper, though there was no one else around to hear.
“There’s no such thing as Santa Claus.” She proclaimed.
The world tilted.
The rope slipped from my fingers, and the yellow-striped handles clattered against the pavement. I stared at her, waiting for the punchline, for the “just kidding” that would make everything right again. But her smile only grew wider, feeding on my shock. “No,” I whispered. “You’re wrong.” But even as I said it, something cold and terrible was spreading through my chest. She wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. Would she?
“Nope. Mom just told me.” Emily crossed her arms, triumphant. “No Santa Claus. No Easter Bunny. No Tooth Fairy. None of it. None of it’s true.”
“You’re lying!” The words came out as a shriek. Rage flooded through me. Hot, desperate rage at her, at the world, at the possibility that she might be telling the truth. “You’re a liar!”
But tears were already streaming down my face, and I was running, my black dress shoes slapping against the concrete as I fled toward the house. The screen door banged behind me, and I burst into the kitchen where my mother stood at the counter, cutting vegetables for dinner.
“Mom!” I couldn’t catch my breath. The words tumbled out between sobs. “Mom, Emily just told me… she said… she said there’s no such thing as Santa Claus!” The knife stopped moving.
My mother looked up slowly, and in that split second before she spoke, I saw it in her eyes. The truth. The confirmation. The apology.
“Oh,” she said softly, setting down the knife. “Why would she tell you?”
Not, ‘She’s teasing you.’ Not: ‘Of course there’s a Santa Claus.’ Not, ‘Don’t listen to your sister.’
Just “Why would she tell you?”
The tears stopped. Everything stopped.
It was as if someone had reached inside my chest and scooped out everything warm and bright, leaving behind only an echoing hollowness. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t process what was happening.
(No Santa Claus.)
The words didn’t make sense. How could there be no Santa Claus? Who ate the cookies we left out? Who drank the milk? Who filled our stockings with such perfect care, knowing exactly what each of us wanted?
But the truth was there in my mother’s face, in her gentle, sad expression, in the way she reached for me with vegetable-stained hands.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she said. “I didn’t want you to find out this way.”
I jerked away from her touch. The kitchen, with its cheerful yellow wallpaper and the smell of dinner cooking, suddenly felt like enemy territory. These people, these horrible people, had been lying to me. All of them. For my entire life.
Santa Claus. The Easter Bunny. The Tooth Fairy. All the magic, all the wonder, all the things that made the world sparkle with possibility, none of it was real. How could Santa not be real? He was that figure who loved us… loved all of us kids… and would always love us. There was no threat that his love would ever be taken away. No conditions. No disappointments. He was that one figure who was supposed to just always delight in our happiness, who existed solely to bring us joy.
This wasn’t about religion. It was separate from the teachings about God loving us. God was an entity, for everyone, and a much more complex concept. But Santa was a person. A jolly, tangible person who came to your house, who knew your name, who paid attention to whether you’d been good. You could write him letters. You could sit on his lap at the mall. He ate the cookies you left out and left evidence of his visit, half-eaten carrots for the reindeer, sooty footprints by the fireplace.
Knowing that there was no such person, that unconditional delight in children simply for existing, was devastating in a way I couldn’t articulate then. It wasn’t just about the presents or the magic. It was about losing the one being on earth whose entire purpose was to love children, purely and completely, just because we were children. A real person who did that. Who chose to do that. And to now know he had never existed at all.
And they had known. They’d known all along.
I ran to my room and slammed the door, throwing myself onto my Holly Hobbie bedspread. I cried until my throat ached and my pillow was soaked. Outside my window, I could hear the neighborhood carrying on as if nothing had changed; kids playing, birds singing, that lawn mower still droning. But everything had changed. The world was smaller now. Darker. More ordinary. At five years old, I had learned that magic was a lie. But I wasn’t ready to accept it.
For years after that devastating summer afternoon, I waged a private war against the truth. Every Christmas season, I would carefully craft a letter to Santa Claus, writing it in my neatest handwriting, usually at school or at a friend’s house where no one would question what I was doing.
I can still recite that address, burned into my memory from countless episodes of The Cucumber Club: Santa Claus, North Pole, H0H 0H0.
It was perfect, wasn’t it? HO HO HO. The postal code was practically his laugh.
You didn’t need a stamp; everyone knew that. You just dropped the letter in any mailbox, and somehow it would find its way to the North Pole. I believed in that magic even as I stopped believing in everything else.
Each year, I would ask for something specific in that letter, something I carefully avoided mentioning anywhere else. Not to my mother. Not on any other Christmas list. Not to anyone. It was my test, my proof. If Santa wasn’t real, then these things wouldn’t appear under the tree. But if he was real, if I could just prove that my mother and Emily were wrong…
I was twelve when I wrote my last letter.
Twelve years old, sitting at my desk with Christmas lights twinkling outside my window, carefully printing my request to Santa. I remember sealing the envelope, walking it to the mailbox on the corner, and feeling foolish even as I refused to give up hope.
That Christmas morning, my test gift wasn’t there.
I stood in front of the tree in my flannel pajamas, staring at the packages as my siblings tore into theirs with enthusiasm. My mother watched me carefully, and I wondered if she’d known all along what I was doing. If she’d watched me year after year, writing those secret letters, holding onto belief with both fists.
When I finally accepted it, truly accepted it, the loss was different than it had been at five. Quieter. Sadder. Less rage, more resignation… There was no Santa Claus… There never had been… Magic wasn’t real, and childhood was over.
For a while, Christmas lost its shine. I went through the motions; helped decorate the tree, wore the ugly Christmas sweater to school, smiled for the family photos. But the electricity was gone, that breathless anticipation that used to make Christmas Eve feel like standing on the edge of something wonderful.
My mother, to her credit, never stopped trying. She was determined that Christmas would be magical, Santa or no Santa. She spent hours stuffing our stockings with exactly the right mix of candy and tiny treasures. She got up early to make cinnamon rolls from scratch, filling the house with smells that could almost resurrect belief in miracles. She played Bing Crosby, Burl Ives and Johnny Mathis on repeat, singing along while she wrapped presents with careful precision.
I have a vivid memory of one Christmas Eve when I was six or seven. I’d worked myself into such a state of excitement,despite my knowledge that it was all pretend, that I literally couldn’t breathe. I was sitting on my bed, gasping for air, tears streaming down my face, and my mother rushed in to find me hyperventilating.
“Breathe, sweetheart,” she kept saying, rubbing my back in circles. “Slow down. It’s okay.”
But she was laughing too, even as she tried to calm me down. Laughing at the absurdity of a child so excited about Christmas morning that she’d given herself a panic attack.
“You are the most ridiculous child I’ve ever met,” she said fondly, kissing the top of my head once I could breathe again.
She was right. I was ridiculous. I knew it even then. But Christmas had that effect on me. It bypassed logic and went straight to something primal and joyful in my soul.
The ritual was always the same. My mother would sleep in the hallway on Christmas Eve, blocking the path to the living room and the tree. If I opened my door and saw her there in her sleeping bag, I had to wait. But if I opened my door and she was gone, it meant Christmas had officially begun.
I was always the first one up, creeping down the dark hallway at some ungodly hour, my heart pounding with anticipation. I’d grab my stocking, lumpy with mysterious contents, and race back to my room. Then I’d spread everything out on my bed: the chocolate coins, the silly putty, the tiny toys, the oranges that always appeared in the toe. I’d arrange it all, take inventory, savor each item before carefully repacking everything. Only then, when I’d thoroughly examined my stocking, would we be allowed to wake Mom and open the presents under the tree. Those were good years, despite the loss of Santa. My mother made sure of that.
As I got older, I tried to recreate that magic for others. I loved the idea of adopting families at Christmas, of being someone’s secret Santa, of making sure that other children had the kind of magical Christmas mornings that I remembered. There was something deeply satisfying about shopping for strangers, imagining their faces when they opened gifts we’d carefully chosen.
Our family dinners were loud and chaotic and wonderful; Grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, everyone crowded around tables that had been pushed together to accommodate the crowd. There was too much food, too much laughter, too much of everything. It was perfect. But gradually, things changed.
First, my grandparents got too old to host. Then some of them passed away. Cousins moved away for jobs. Aunts and uncles divorced and remarried, creating complicated new family dynamics. The crowd around the table got smaller each year, until eventually, it was just our immediate family. Even that, I told myself, was enough. As long as we were together, Christmas could still be special. I just had no idea how special it would become again.
CHAPTER TWO
Magic, Restored
Everything changed the first Christmas after my first child was born. I was exhausted, overwhelmed, running on approximately two hours of sleep and pure maternal instinct. The baby was eight months old that first Christmas, far too young to know or care about the holiday, but aware enough to enjoy the decorations, stories and toys. Holding him in my arms while sitting in front of the twinkling tree, I felt something crack open inside my chest… Magic was real again.
Not the magic of a stranger in a red suit. Something deeper. The magic of creating wonder for someone else. Of being the keeper of childhood joy. Of having the power to make someone believe in miracles.
Over the years, as more children came, Christmas became my masterpiece. I would start planning in October, setting aside a bit of money from each paycheck. I’d watch my kids carefully, listening for those moments when they’d mention what they really wanted, what they dreamed about.
“Mom, wouldn’t it be so cool if I had a telescope? Then I could see the moon up close.”
“I wish I had the Millennium Falcon. The big one, not the little one. Then I could play Star Wars for real.”
“Jenny at school has the American Girl doll with all the accessories. She’s so lucky.”
I’d write it all down, catalog it, and then I’d plot. I’d scour flyers, set up alerts for sales, call stores to see if they had items in stock. When Black Friday arrived, I’d have a battle plan that would make a general proud.
The logistics were complicated, especially when the kids were young enough to accompany me everywhere. I became an expert in distraction and misdirection. I’d send them to look at something in one aisle while I quickly grabbed and hid items in another. I’d recruit store employees to hold things at customer service until I could return alone. I perfected the art of the decoy purchase; buying something obvious to show the kids while the real gifts were smuggled into the trunk.
Our house became a fortress of Christmas secrets. I had hiding places the kids never found, some I wouldn’t find again until months after Christmas had passed. Gifts were tucked behind the winter coats in the basement closet, under the tablecloths in the dining room buffet, in the crawl space behind the water heater. I was like Christmas covert agent, and my mission was to preserve the magic as long as humanly possible.
When my oldest came home from school one day, his face troubled, I knew what was coming.
“Mom?” He was seven, standing in the kitchen doorway with his backpack still on. “Dylan at school said there’s no such thing as Santa.” My heart clenched, remembering that summer day on Dorchester Street, remembering the devastation of learning the truth too soon. But I was ready. I’d been preparing for this moment for years, knowing someone would one day try to rob my child of magic, just as I had been robbed.
I knelt down to his level, making my expression serious and sympathetic. “Oh, sweetheart. That’s so sad.” He blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Well…” I chose my words carefully. “Some children end up on the naughty list. And when you’re on the naughty list, Santa can’t bring you presents anymore. So their parents have to buy all the gifts themselves and pretend they’re from Santa, just so the child doesn’t feel left out.”
His eyes widened. “Really?”
“Sometimes, the parents get tired of doing all that extra work, and not getting credit for it. So they tell their children that there is no Santa.” I shook my head sadly. “It’s very sad when a child loses their place on Santa’s nice list.” He was quiet for a long moment, processing this information. Then: “So Dylan is on the naughty list? Ohhhh, he’s definitely on the naughty list!” Craig said, with a look n his face like he’d just been let in on one of life’s great secrets.
“I don’t know, honey. But if his parents are telling him there’s no Santa, it’s probably because they’re the ones who have to do Santa’s job now.” He nodded slowly, and I could practically see his brain working. Making calculations about his own behavior. Recommitting to being good.
From that day forward, he never again suggested that Santa wasn’t real. I don’t know how many years he truly believed, or at what point he figured it out but chose to stay quiet. But he never spoiled it for his younger siblings, never uttered those devastating words that had been spoken to me.
The traditions multiplied and deepened. Every Christmas Eve, we’d read How the Grinch Stole Christmas, the same battered copy my mother had read to me, its pages softened by years of handling. I always paused at those bright red pages, I could almost put myself back into a childhood moment, just for a split second, when I saw those pages. The kids would put out cookies and milk for Santa, carrots for the reindeer. We’d take photos in front of the tree, everyone in matching pajamas (which they pretended to hate but secretly loved). They’d hang their stockings with such care, making sure each one was perfectly positioned.
Those were the golden years.
Waking up on Christmas morning to squeals of delight. Watching their faces as they discovered that Santa had somehow known exactly what they wanted. The way they’d race to show each other their favorite gifts, the living room floor disappearing under a sea of wrapping paper and boxes. Christmas Eve dinners with everyone around the table, my mother, my siblings, my own growing family. The laughter, the warmth, the sense that we were all exactly where we were meant to be… I thought it would last forever
The first shift was subtle. My oldest got a part-time job at the grocery store the Christmas before he turned sixteen.
“I have to work Christmas Eve,” he said apologetically. “But I’ll be home by eight. We can still do dinner, right?”
“Of course,” I said, because what else could I say? I was proud of him for being responsible, for earning money, for growing up.
He made it home that night, tired and smelling like roasted chicken, but he was there for dinner. We still read the Grinch. We still took photos by the tree. It was fine. But Christmas morning, he had to be back at work at ten. The grocery store was open Christmas Day for those needing last minute meal prep items.
“I’ll open presents really quick,” he promised. “I just have to be there on time. My boss is counting on me.”
So we set our alarms earlier. We opened presents in a rush, and then he was gone, leaving his siblings to play with their new toys while I started cleaning up wrapping paper, before they head off top their dads for his part of Christmas with them.
It was fine. It was just one year. Just a phase.
But the next year, my second child had a tournament in another city. They’d be gone until late Christmas Eve because of the distance. This was challenging, because the kids all left Christmas Day at noon for their dads; he missed our Christmas dinner. We adapted. We made it work. And it was work.
Year by year, the gatherings grew smaller. My mother was aging, finding it harder to host. My siblings had their own complications; divorces, new partners, step-children with their own family obligations. The big, chaotic dinners became smaller affairs. Then they stopped altogether.
‘We’ll just do it with our immediate family,’ I thought. ‘That will be nice too. More intimate.’ And it was. For a while.
But then my children grew older still. They went away to university. They got serious partners. They had jobs with limited holiday time.
“I can’t get Christmas Eve off,” my daughter said when she called from her dorm. “But I’ll be home Christmas morning! We can still do presents.”
Except by then, two of her siblings couldn’t make it until the day after Christmas. And one couldn’t make it at all.
“Why don’t we just do it when everyone can be here?” I suggested. “We’ll celebrate on the 27th. It’ll be great.” But it wasn’t great. It was fine. It was nice to see them. But it wasn’t Christmas.
The year my youngest brought her boyfriend home, I was so excited. I’d prepared her favorite foods, decorated the house exactly the way she liked, wrapped presents in paper I knew she’d love. I’d been planning for weeks.
They arrived Christmas Eve at six.
“Mom, this is Tyler. Tyler, this is my mom.”
We had a big Christmas dinner with all the trimmings. It was wonderful to have her home with me, to share this meal. Tyler was polite, and my daughter seemed happy.
At ten o’clock, she hugged me goodbye. “We’re going to Tyler’s parents’ house for Christmas morning,” she explained. “But this was nice! Thanks for dinner, Mom.” My heart sank. I had been under the impression they were staying over Christmas Eve and that they’d still be there when her brothers arrived the next day. They gathered up their gifts and bundled up in their winter coats… And then they were gone.
I stood in my decorated house,twinkling lights on the tree, stockings hung with care, cookies still warm in the kitchen, and realized I would be spending Christmas Eve alone. I would wake up Christmas morning, alone. Completely alone.
The first time it happened, I told myself it was a fluke. An unfortunate scheduling conflict. Next year would be better. But next year brought similar complications. And the year after that. My children love me, I have always known that. But they had their own lives now, commitments, people pulling them in different directions. Christmas had to be divided, negotiated, compromised. I understood. I really did. But understanding didn’t make Christmas morning any less lonely.
I’d sit in my living room, surrounded by evidence of a holiday that had already happened; the dishes from Christmas Eve dinner still in the sink because I’d wanted to spend every possible minute with whoever had been able to come. Bags of torn wrapping paper waiting to be taken to recycling. Gifts opened hastily before people had to leave. The silence was crushing.
I’d think about all the years of planning, shopping, hiding, wrapping. Countless years I had stayed up till the wee hours of Christmas morning, finishing the last minute details, wrapping gifts, assembling things, sewing stockings and even quilts as gifts, while watching Christmas Vacation on repeat… my little tradition. All the effort to make Christmas perfect, to keep the magic alive. And for what? To spend the actual day by myself, slowly cleaning up the remnants of a celebration that had felt rushed and obligatory?
It hurt. More than I was prepared for. More than I wanted to admit.
I tried to maintain the traditions, to keep caring. I still sent Christmas cards, though fewer people sent them back each year. I still bought thoughtful gifts for everyone. I still decorated my house like I was hosting a party, even though no party was coming. But it was getting harder. Each year, the loneliness cut a little deeper. The effort felt more futile and even draining.
The final straw came on a Christmas when none of my children could make it home at all. Not Christmas Eve. Not Christmas Day. Not even the week of Christmas.
“We’ll come in January,” they all promised. “We’ll do Christmas then.” But January isn’t Christmas. January is just January, cold and dark and depressingly ordinary.
That Christmas Day, I sat alone in my silent house. I didn’t bother with a tree. I didn’t cook a special meal. I didn’t even turn on Christmas music.
I just sat there, watching the winter sun move across the wall, while a tv series I’d seen a hundred times was on in the background, feeling something inside me finally break.
When you spend so much time and energy creating magic for other people, pouring your heart into a holiday that’s supposed to be about joy and togetherness, and then you spend the actual day utterly alone… something fundamental shifts. I was done. Done with Christmas. Done with the expectations. Done with the disappointment. Done with willingly stepping into that low, dark place that left me hollowed out and heartbroken.
When my daughter called that evening, cheerful and oblivious, wanting to tell me about her day, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her how I’d spent mine. I couldn’t lay that guilt on her. So I lied and said it had been nice, quiet, and peaceful. But when I hung up the phone, I made myself a promise… No more. I was officially done with Christmas.
CHAPTER THREE
The Decision
The next November, as retail stores began their premature assault of Christmas music and decorations, I felt something I hadn’t expected: relief.
I was sitting in my living room with a glass of wine, watching a Thanksgiving special on TV, when I realized I’d made it through an entire Black Friday without once thinking about Christmas shopping. No mental lists of gifts to buy and need to hit the sales. No anxiety about coordinating schedules. No dread of the inevitable loneliness waiting at the end of all that effort. Just… peace. ‘Thank you’, I thought silently, to no one in particular. ‘Thank you for not caring about Christmas anymore.’
It felt like setting down a weight I’d been carrying for years. Decades, maybe. Since that summer day on Dorchester Street when I’d learned that magic wasn’t real, I’d been trying to recreate it, to prove that wonder could still exist in the world. I’d been fighting to keep Christmas alive first for myself, then for my children, pouring everything I had into making the holiday meaningful. And now? I was giving up. Or maybe not giving up. Maybe just… letting go.
I made a plan. I’d still send cards and money to my kids; I wasn’t going to punish them for having their own lives. But I wouldn’t stress about finding the perfect gifts. I wouldn’t decorate. I wouldn’t host. I wouldn’t build up expectations that could only lead to crushing disappointment. I’d treat December 25th like any other day, and maybe, finally, I’d get through a holiday season without ending up gutted and hollow.
It felt like a good plan. A mature plan. A plan that would protect my heart. I congratulated myself on my wisdom and emotional intelligence. I should have known better than to think I’d get away with it.
I was at work on a Monday in late November, reviewing spreadsheets and trying to focus despite the Christmas muzak playing through the office speakers, when Marcy appeared at my cubicle. Marcy was one of those relentlessly cheerful people. The kind who wore holiday sweaters unironically and kept a bowl of candy canes on her desk year-round. We’d worked together for years, and I genuinely liked her, even if her enthusiasm could be exhausting. “Hey!” she said brightly, perching on the edge of my desk. “So, I need a favor.”
I looked up warily. “What kind of favor?”
“The children’s charity I volunteer with, you know, the one that does the holiday program? We’re really short-staffed this year, and we desperately need help. Would you be willing to pitch in?” My first instinct was to say no. To explain that I wasn’t doing Christmas this year, that I’d opted out, that she’d have to find someone else. But Marcy was looking at me with such hopeful expectation, and the words she’d used “children’s charity” were still echoing in my mind.
Children.
I’d never been able to say no to anything involving kids. It was my weakness, my soft spot, the crack in my armor that people could exploit without even trying. “What would I need to do?” I heard myself asking, even as part of my brain was screaming ‘No! Stick to the plan!’
Marcy’s face lit up. “Oh, thank you! Okay, so there’s a bunch of stuff. We work with local families who need assistance over the holidays, you know, parents who are struggling financially but want to make Christmas special for their kids. We coordinate donations, organize gift collections, put together food baskets, that kind of thing.”
She pulled out her phone and started scrolling through what looked like an extensive to-do list. “We need help matching donors with families, processing gift requests from the kids, coordinating the volunteer schedule for the big Christmas party we throw. Oh, and we need people to help at the actual party, it’s on Christmas Eve, and we have Santa give out gifts to all the kids, and there’s food and games…”
She kept talking, but I’d stopped listening after “Christmas Eve.” Of course it was Christmas Eve. Of course it was the exact night when I’d planned to successfully ignore Christmas altogether.
“I can help with the administrative stuff,” I said carefully. “The emails and lists and organization. But I don’t know about the party itself…”
“That’s perfect!” Marcy said, either not hearing or ignoring my hesitation. “Honestly, the behind-the-scenes work is what we need most. The party has plenty of volunteers, it’s the coordination beforehand that’s killing us. You’d be a lifesaver.” And just like that, I was committed.
As Marcy walked away, practically bouncing with gratitude, I stared at my computer screen and wondered how I’d let this happen. This was supposed to be the year I didn’t do Christmas. The year I protected my heart. The year I finally accepted that the holiday had changed and I didn’t have to keep chasing something that was gone. But apparently, the universe had other plans.
“So, you’ve signed up for a Christmas charity… So much for no Christmas this year,” Isaac scoffed.
Isaac was my best friend of many years, and he held a similar mindset about Christmas, though he’d never made the big proclamation about it the way I had. We were nursing pints at Murphy’s, our usual Monday night refuge, settled into our favorite table by the window.
“Laugh all you want, Christmas boy. I stand by my decision. Me helping out with a charity is the right thing to do. I still believe in the religious aspects of the holiday; it’s just all the hoopla I’ve written off. I’m tired of my heart being broken.”
His smile faded a bit. He knew I wasn’t just talking about Christmas.
We each took a sip of our pints and let the familiar atmosphere of the pub settle around us. Holiday music played softly in the background. Hockey highlights flickered across most of the TVs, though one screen inexplicably showed a golf match from some sunny, distant place. People milled around, regulars telling tall tales and laughing boisterously at the bar. Listening to it all, watching the easy rhythm of the place, relaxed me. This was one of my happy places. Isaac and I met up regularly for a pint at one of our favorite pubs; always places with atmosphere and lively characters who had claimed their own seats by the bar.
“You know,” Isaac said after a moment, “if you, with all your Christmas bah-humbug, can be inspired to help out, I think I want to as well. Sign me up.”
“Really? No Sebastian this Christmas Eve?” I asked. Sebastian was his son, who usually made it home for Christmas, though he seldom stayed past noon on Christmas Day because of his mother’s family obligations.
“Nope. I’m orphaned this Christmas, or whatever the term for it is. Sebastian got a deal on a ski trip with a group of friends. They leave the 24th and come back on the 30th. I’m hoping to have him at the house for New Year’s Day supper.”
My heart felt heavy again. Isaac loved Christmas, truly loved it. And the thing he loved most about it was spending it with his son. I understood this. I empathized with this, deeply. I decided to shake off the weight of it all.
“Well, lucky me, then,” I said brightly. “I get you all to myself for the holidays.”
“Does this mean we get to do the big Christmas thing? All the decorating, baking, singing, and so forth?” He pressed, his eyes lighting up with genuine hope.
“Don’t push your luck,” I responded with a smile.
“Okay, how about a little Christmas wedding instead?” He pushed further.
Isaac had a habit of almost proposing on a regular basis, mostly in jest, but sometimes it was hard to be sure. I had considered, in idle moments, what things might be like if he was actually serious. He was, after all, my best friend. But we’d never even so much as held hands. It would be nice to have someone to share the adventure with someone who was already in your inner circle, who could blend seamlessly into your life, who already knew about all your annoying habits.
But I had no intention of dating. I’d grown tired of the games years ago. The thought of investing in another person again was exhausting. I’d chosen poorly a couple of times, and those people had taken years from me, never appreciating my love and effort until I had no more to give them. Maybe they had taken all I had to give, period.
“Maybe next year,” I joked.
“Bah, rejected again.” Isaac raised his glass in mock salute. “Fine, but I will try again next year.” He took a sip, then leaned forward with genuine interest. “So tell me more about this charity. What can I help with?”
“Well, we’re short a few donors. The need is large this year, and there are some wishes left ungranted. Think you could swing a few gifts for the kids if I send you a list?”
“For sure. Make it a big list. I can’t resist seeing happy kids at Christmas. That’s what it’s about; children’s smiles, their hearts filled with magic and joy.”
As he said this, my brain flooded with overlapping images of my own kids at Christmas; their smiles, their laughter, their hugs. The memories came with equal measures of warmth and ache.
CHAPTER FOUR
Cookie Exchange
It turned out I had signed up for more than I’d bargained for.The next day at work, Marcy announced that there were a few “pre-Christmas events” scheduled, designed to fill the holiday season with as much joy as possible for the children. One of these events was a Christmas Cookie Exchange. The kids would be partnered with adults from the charity to bake their favorite cookie recipes. Then they’d exchange cookies with other kids and take home a mix of all the different varieties, putting them in tins to give to family, teachers, or anyone special to them.
I had to admit, it sounded like a great idea, despite my overall aversion to the whole thing.
I hadn’t baked Christmas cookies in a few years, so that night I went through my recipe box and pulled out the ones I thought might be the biggest crowd pleasers. As I spread the recipes across the kitchen table, some of the stained cards jumped out at me.
Death by Chocolate had been my daughter’s favorite.I remembered the first time she helped me make them. The kitchen had been covered in flour, egg shells, and smeared butter. She was covered in melted chocolate; or at least most of her face was. She’d needed help stirring the heavy dough, and I’d wrapped my arms around her small frame, guiding her hands. I could still feel it, how holding her made my insides feel like they would burst with love. I could hear her laughter, how it made all the mess fade away. She’d ended up scooping out huge amounts for each cookie. What should have been twelve cookies ended up being only five or six. Despite their size and the amount of chocolate in each one, they didn’t make it to the next day. She didn’t even have a stomach ache over it; or at least not one she let on about.
Then I saw the sugar cookie recipe.
I remembered making these each year, the kids all decorating them together. Craig, my oldest, always insisted on making superhero cookies. My second oldest, James, insisted on staying true to the holiday and would usually make a Santa or a Christmas tree. He would meticulously decorate each cookie, making one in the time my daughter would have decorated ten. Mike, my third, would use whatever cookie cutters I’d pulled out; typically only two or three shapes. He always used just a few colors when decorating his, but did so with great care. Vanessa had no rules. Sometimes it was the cookie cutters. Sometimes it was free-form shapes cut with a knife. Sometimes it was every color thrown on at once, and other times she took great care with the tiniest details.I found myself laughing at the thought of them all around the table, working intently, and then gobbling the cookies up before the icing had even hardened.
I pulled out two recipes: chocolate sugar cookies and gingersnaps. These were fairly easy to make and always crowd pleasers. I decided to write out the recipes and create recipe cards for the kids to take home, a keepsake of the day.
I printed the cards and added holiday stickers to them that I’d found in some old craft supplies. When I was done, I sat back at the table, taking a long look at what I’d just created, and laughed at myself.So much for opting out this Christmas. I was literally sitting by myself making Christmas crafts. But I didn’t feel bad about going against my own “rule.” I felt pretty good, as a matter of fact.
Dorchester Street, Summer 1981
The pink plastic skipping rope made a satisfying ‘thwap-thwap-thwap’ against the hot pavement, keeping perfect rhythm with the song I was singing. I can still see myself there, as clearly as if I’m watching from the shade of that old maple tree; a little girl in a strapless terry cloth romper, incongruously wearing black patent leather dress shoes that clicked against the sidewalk with each skip.
It was the kind of summer day that feels endless when you’re five years old. The sun blazed overhead, but the tree’s canopy created a cool pocket of shade that shifted and danced with each breeze. The yellow-striped handles of my jump rope were already sticky with heat and the enthusiasm of my grip. Somewhere down the street, a lawn mower droned. Mrs. Patterson’s sprinkler next door sent arcs of water across her emerald lawn in rhythmic ‘tick-tick-tick-tick-sssshhhhh’ patterns.
I was singing something, (probably a commercial jingle or a song from Sesame Street), completely absorbed in my game, counting my jumps, trying to beat yesterday’s record. In that moment, my whole world consisted of the rope’s rhythm, the shade’s coolness, and the simple joy of a perfect summer afternoon. Then the front door opened.
I heard it before I saw her. That distinctive creak of the screen door, followed by the slap of it closing. Emily stood on the front step, eight years old and wearing that particular expression I’d learned to dread. It was a look of gleeful malice, the smile of someone who possessed a secret and intended to weaponize it. My rope faltered mid-swing, the rhythm broken. She took her time descending the concrete steps, drawing out the moment. Her feet, clad in cork-heeled sandals, made deliberate ‘clop-clop’ sounds. When she reached me, she tilted her head, her smile widening.
“I know something you don’t know,” she said in a sing-song voice.
My stomach tightened. Nothing good ever followed those words from Emily. Still, I tried to sound casual, nonchalant. “Oh yeah? What’s that?” She leaned in close, and I could smell the grape Hubba Bubba on her breath. Her voice dropped to a theatrical whisper, though there was no one else around to hear.
“There’s no such thing as Santa Claus.” She proclaimed.
The world tilted.
The rope slipped from my fingers, and the yellow-striped handles clattered against the pavement. I stared at her, waiting for the punchline, for the “just kidding” that would make everything right again. But her smile only grew wider, feeding on my shock. “No,” I whispered. “You’re wrong.” But even as I said it, something cold and terrible was spreading through my chest. She wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. Would she?
“Nope. Mom just told me.” Emily crossed her arms, triumphant. “No Santa Claus. No Easter Bunny. No Tooth Fairy. None of it. None of it’s true.”
“You’re lying!” The words came out as a shriek. Rage flooded through me. Hot, desperate rage at her, at the world, at the possibility that she might be telling the truth. “You’re a liar!”
But tears were already streaming down my face, and I was running, my black dress shoes slapping against the concrete as I fled toward the house. The screen door banged behind me, and I burst into the kitchen where my mother stood at the counter, cutting vegetables for dinner.
“Mom!” I couldn’t catch my breath. The words tumbled out between sobs. “Mom, Emily just told me… she said… she said there’s no such thing as Santa Claus!” The knife stopped moving.
My mother looked up slowly, and in that split second before she spoke, I saw it in her eyes. The truth. The confirmation. The apology.
“Oh,” she said softly, setting down the knife. “Why would she tell you?”
Not, ‘She’s teasing you.’ Not: ‘Of course there’s a Santa Claus.’ Not, ‘Don’t listen to your sister.’
Just “Why would she tell you?”
The tears stopped. Everything stopped.
It was as if someone had reached inside my chest and scooped out everything warm and bright, leaving behind only an echoing hollowness. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t process what was happening.
(No Santa Claus.)
The words didn’t make sense. How could there be no Santa Claus? Who ate the cookies we left out? Who drank the milk? Who filled our stockings with such perfect care, knowing exactly what each of us wanted?
But the truth was there in my mother’s face, in her gentle, sad expression, in the way she reached for me with vegetable-stained hands.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she said. “I didn’t want you to find out this way.”
I jerked away from her touch. The kitchen, with its cheerful yellow wallpaper and the smell of dinner cooking, suddenly felt like enemy territory. These people, these horrible people, had been lying to me. All of them. For my entire life.
Santa Claus. The Easter Bunny. The Tooth Fairy. All the magic, all the wonder, all the things that made the world sparkle with possibility, none of it was real. How could Santa not be real? He was that figure who loved us… loved all of us kids… and would always love us. There was no threat that his love would ever be taken away. No conditions. No disappointments. He was that one figure who was supposed to just always delight in our happiness, who existed solely to bring us joy.
This wasn’t about religion. It was separate from the teachings about God loving us. God was an entity, for everyone, and a much more complex concept. But Santa was a person. A jolly, tangible person who came to your house, who knew your name, who paid attention to whether you’d been good. You could write him letters. You could sit on his lap at the mall. He ate the cookies you left out and left evidence of his visit, half-eaten carrots for the reindeer, sooty footprints by the fireplace.
Knowing that there was no such person, that unconditional delight in children simply for existing, was devastating in a way I couldn’t articulate then. It wasn’t just about the presents or the magic. It was about losing the one being on earth whose entire purpose was to love children, purely and completely, just because we were children. A real person who did that. Who chose to do that. And to now know he had never existed at all.
And they had known. They’d known all along.
I ran to my room and slammed the door, throwing myself onto my Holly Hobbie bedspread. I cried until my throat ached and my pillow was soaked. Outside my window, I could hear the neighborhood carrying on as if nothing had changed; kids playing, birds singing, that lawn mower still droning. But everything had changed. The world was smaller now. Darker. More ordinary. At five years old, I had learned that magic was a lie. But I wasn’t ready to accept it.
For years after that devastating summer afternoon, I waged a private war against the truth. Every Christmas season, I would carefully craft a letter to Santa Claus, writing it in my neatest handwriting, usually at school or at a friend’s house where no one would question what I was doing.
I can still recite that address, burned into my memory from countless episodes of The Cucumber Club: Santa Claus, North Pole, H0H 0H0.
It was perfect, wasn’t it? HO HO HO. The postal code was practically his laugh.
You didn’t need a stamp; everyone knew that. You just dropped the letter in any mailbox, and somehow it would find its way to the North Pole. I believed in that magic even as I stopped believing in everything else.
Each year, I would ask for something specific in that letter, something I carefully avoided mentioning anywhere else. Not to my mother. Not on any other Christmas list. Not to anyone. It was my test, my proof. If Santa wasn’t real, then these things wouldn’t appear under the tree. But if he was real, if I could just prove that my mother and Emily were wrong…
I was twelve when I wrote my last letter.
Twelve years old, sitting at my desk with Christmas lights twinkling outside my window, carefully printing my request to Santa. I remember sealing the envelope, walking it to the mailbox on the corner, and feeling foolish even as I refused to give up hope.
That Christmas morning, my test gift wasn’t there.
I stood in front of the tree in my flannel pajamas, staring at the packages as my siblings tore into theirs with enthusiasm. My mother watched me carefully, and I wondered if she’d known all along what I was doing. If she’d watched me year after year, writing those secret letters, holding onto belief with both fists.
When I finally accepted it, truly accepted it, the loss was different than it had been at five. Quieter. Sadder. Less rage, more resignation… There was no Santa Claus… There never had been… Magic wasn’t real, and childhood was over.
For a while, Christmas lost its shine. I went through the motions; helped decorate the tree, wore the ugly Christmas sweater to school, smiled for the family photos. But the electricity was gone, that breathless anticipation that used to make Christmas Eve feel like standing on the edge of something wonderful.
My mother, to her credit, never stopped trying. She was determined that Christmas would be magical, Santa or no Santa. She spent hours stuffing our stockings with exactly the right mix of candy and tiny treasures. She got up early to make cinnamon rolls from scratch, filling the house with smells that could almost resurrect belief in miracles. She played Bing Crosby, Burl Ives and Johnny Mathis on repeat, singing along while she wrapped presents with careful precision.
I have a vivid memory of one Christmas Eve when I was six or seven. I’d worked myself into such a state of excitement,despite my knowledge that it was all pretend, that I literally couldn’t breathe. I was sitting on my bed, gasping for air, tears streaming down my face, and my mother rushed in to find me hyperventilating.
“Breathe, sweetheart,” she kept saying, rubbing my back in circles. “Slow down. It’s okay.”
But she was laughing too, even as she tried to calm me down. Laughing at the absurdity of a child so excited about Christmas morning that she’d given herself a panic attack.
“You are the most ridiculous child I’ve ever met,” she said fondly, kissing the top of my head once I could breathe again.
She was right. I was ridiculous. I knew it even then. But Christmas had that effect on me. It bypassed logic and went straight to something primal and joyful in my soul.
The ritual was always the same. My mother would sleep in the hallway on Christmas Eve, blocking the path to the living room and the tree. If I opened my door and saw her there in her sleeping bag, I had to wait. But if I opened my door and she was gone, it meant Christmas had officially begun.
I was always the first one up, creeping down the dark hallway at some ungodly hour, my heart pounding with anticipation. I’d grab my stocking, lumpy with mysterious contents, and race back to my room. Then I’d spread everything out on my bed: the chocolate coins, the silly putty, the tiny toys, the oranges that always appeared in the toe. I’d arrange it all, take inventory, savor each item before carefully repacking everything. Only then, when I’d thoroughly examined my stocking, would we be allowed to wake Mom and open the presents under the tree. Those were good years, despite the loss of Santa. My mother made sure of that.
As I got older, I tried to recreate that magic for others. I loved the idea of adopting families at Christmas, of being someone’s secret Santa, of making sure that other children had the kind of magical Christmas mornings that I remembered. There was something deeply satisfying about shopping for strangers, imagining their faces when they opened gifts we’d carefully chosen.
Our family dinners were loud and chaotic and wonderful; Grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, everyone crowded around tables that had been pushed together to accommodate the crowd. There was too much food, too much laughter, too much of everything. It was perfect. But gradually, things changed.
First, my grandparents got too old to host. Then some of them passed away. Cousins moved away for jobs. Aunts and uncles divorced and remarried, creating complicated new family dynamics. The crowd around the table got smaller each year, until eventually, it was just our immediate family. Even that, I told myself, was enough. As long as we were together, Christmas could still be special. I just had no idea how special it would become again.
CHAPTER TWO
Magic, Restored
Everything changed the first Christmas after my first child was born. I was exhausted, overwhelmed, running on approximately two hours of sleep and pure maternal instinct. The baby was eight months old that first Christmas, far too young to know or care about the holiday, but aware enough to enjoy the decorations, stories and toys. Holding him in my arms while sitting in front of the twinkling tree, I felt something crack open inside my chest… Magic was real again.
Not the magic of a stranger in a red suit. Something deeper. The magic of creating wonder for someone else. Of being the keeper of childhood joy. Of having the power to make someone believe in miracles.
Over the years, as more children came, Christmas became my masterpiece. I would start planning in October, setting aside a bit of money from each paycheck. I’d watch my kids carefully, listening for those moments when they’d mention what they really wanted, what they dreamed about.
“Mom, wouldn’t it be so cool if I had a telescope? Then I could see the moon up close.”
“I wish I had the Millennium Falcon. The big one, not the little one. Then I could play Star Wars for real.”
“Jenny at school has the American Girl doll with all the accessories. She’s so lucky.”
I’d write it all down, catalog it, and then I’d plot. I’d scour flyers, set up alerts for sales, call stores to see if they had items in stock. When Black Friday arrived, I’d have a battle plan that would make a general proud.
The logistics were complicated, especially when the kids were young enough to accompany me everywhere. I became an expert in distraction and misdirection. I’d send them to look at something in one aisle while I quickly grabbed and hid items in another. I’d recruit store employees to hold things at customer service until I could return alone. I perfected the art of the decoy purchase; buying something obvious to show the kids while the real gifts were smuggled into the trunk.
Our house became a fortress of Christmas secrets. I had hiding places the kids never found, some I wouldn’t find again until months after Christmas had passed. Gifts were tucked behind the winter coats in the basement closet, under the tablecloths in the dining room buffet, in the crawl space behind the water heater. I was like Christmas covert agent, and my mission was to preserve the magic as long as humanly possible.
When my oldest came home from school one day, his face troubled, I knew what was coming.
“Mom?” He was seven, standing in the kitchen doorway with his backpack still on. “Dylan at school said there’s no such thing as Santa.” My heart clenched, remembering that summer day on Dorchester Street, remembering the devastation of learning the truth too soon. But I was ready. I’d been preparing for this moment for years, knowing someone would one day try to rob my child of magic, just as I had been robbed.
I knelt down to his level, making my expression serious and sympathetic. “Oh, sweetheart. That’s so sad.” He blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Well…” I chose my words carefully. “Some children end up on the naughty list. And when you’re on the naughty list, Santa can’t bring you presents anymore. So their parents have to buy all the gifts themselves and pretend they’re from Santa, just so the child doesn’t feel left out.”
His eyes widened. “Really?”
“Sometimes, the parents get tired of doing all that extra work, and not getting credit for it. So they tell their children that there is no Santa.” I shook my head sadly. “It’s very sad when a child loses their place on Santa’s nice list.” He was quiet for a long moment, processing this information. Then: “So Dylan is on the naughty list? Ohhhh, he’s definitely on the naughty list!” Craig said, with a look n his face like he’d just been let in on one of life’s great secrets.
“I don’t know, honey. But if his parents are telling him there’s no Santa, it’s probably because they’re the ones who have to do Santa’s job now.” He nodded slowly, and I could practically see his brain working. Making calculations about his own behavior. Recommitting to being good.
From that day forward, he never again suggested that Santa wasn’t real. I don’t know how many years he truly believed, or at what point he figured it out but chose to stay quiet. But he never spoiled it for his younger siblings, never uttered those devastating words that had been spoken to me.
The traditions multiplied and deepened. Every Christmas Eve, we’d read How the Grinch Stole Christmas, the same battered copy my mother had read to me, its pages softened by years of handling. I always paused at those bright red pages, I could almost put myself back into a childhood moment, just for a split second, when I saw those pages. The kids would put out cookies and milk for Santa, carrots for the reindeer. We’d take photos in front of the tree, everyone in matching pajamas (which they pretended to hate but secretly loved). They’d hang their stockings with such care, making sure each one was perfectly positioned.
Those were the golden years.
Waking up on Christmas morning to squeals of delight. Watching their faces as they discovered that Santa had somehow known exactly what they wanted. The way they’d race to show each other their favorite gifts, the living room floor disappearing under a sea of wrapping paper and boxes. Christmas Eve dinners with everyone around the table, my mother, my siblings, my own growing family. The laughter, the warmth, the sense that we were all exactly where we were meant to be… I thought it would last forever
The first shift was subtle. My oldest got a part-time job at the grocery store the Christmas before he turned sixteen.
“I have to work Christmas Eve,” he said apologetically. “But I’ll be home by eight. We can still do dinner, right?”
“Of course,” I said, because what else could I say? I was proud of him for being responsible, for earning money, for growing up.
He made it home that night, tired and smelling like roasted chicken, but he was there for dinner. We still read the Grinch. We still took photos by the tree. It was fine. But Christmas morning, he had to be back at work at ten. The grocery store was open Christmas Day for those needing last minute meal prep items.
“I’ll open presents really quick,” he promised. “I just have to be there on time. My boss is counting on me.”
So we set our alarms earlier. We opened presents in a rush, and then he was gone, leaving his siblings to play with their new toys while I started cleaning up wrapping paper, before they head off top their dads for his part of Christmas with them.
It was fine. It was just one year. Just a phase.
But the next year, my second child had a tournament in another city. They’d be gone until late Christmas Eve because of the distance. This was challenging, because the kids all left Christmas Day at noon for their dads; he missed our Christmas dinner. We adapted. We made it work. And it was work.
Year by year, the gatherings grew smaller. My mother was aging, finding it harder to host. My siblings had their own complications; divorces, new partners, step-children with their own family obligations. The big, chaotic dinners became smaller affairs. Then they stopped altogether.
‘We’ll just do it with our immediate family,’ I thought. ‘That will be nice too. More intimate.’ And it was. For a while.
But then my children grew older still. They went away to university. They got serious partners. They had jobs with limited holiday time.
“I can’t get Christmas Eve off,” my daughter said when she called from her dorm. “But I’ll be home Christmas morning! We can still do presents.”
Except by then, two of her siblings couldn’t make it until the day after Christmas. And one couldn’t make it at all.
“Why don’t we just do it when everyone can be here?” I suggested. “We’ll celebrate on the 27th. It’ll be great.” But it wasn’t great. It was fine. It was nice to see them. But it wasn’t Christmas.
The year my youngest brought her boyfriend home, I was so excited. I’d prepared her favorite foods, decorated the house exactly the way she liked, wrapped presents in paper I knew she’d love. I’d been planning for weeks.
They arrived Christmas Eve at six.
“Mom, this is Tyler. Tyler, this is my mom.”
We had a big Christmas dinner with all the trimmings. It was wonderful to have her home with me, to share this meal. Tyler was polite, and my daughter seemed happy.
At ten o’clock, she hugged me goodbye. “We’re going to Tyler’s parents’ house for Christmas morning,” she explained. “But this was nice! Thanks for dinner, Mom.” My heart sank. I had been under the impression they were staying over Christmas Eve and that they’d still be there when her brothers arrived the next day. They gathered up their gifts and bundled up in their winter coats… And then they were gone.
I stood in my decorated house,twinkling lights on the tree, stockings hung with care, cookies still warm in the kitchen, and realized I would be spending Christmas Eve alone. I would wake up Christmas morning, alone. Completely alone.
The first time it happened, I told myself it was a fluke. An unfortunate scheduling conflict. Next year would be better. But next year brought similar complications. And the year after that. My children love me, I have always known that. But they had their own lives now, commitments, people pulling them in different directions. Christmas had to be divided, negotiated, compromised. I understood. I really did. But understanding didn’t make Christmas morning any less lonely.
I’d sit in my living room, surrounded by evidence of a holiday that had already happened; the dishes from Christmas Eve dinner still in the sink because I’d wanted to spend every possible minute with whoever had been able to come. Bags of torn wrapping paper waiting to be taken to recycling. Gifts opened hastily before people had to leave. The silence was crushing.
I’d think about all the years of planning, shopping, hiding, wrapping. Countless years I had stayed up till the wee hours of Christmas morning, finishing the last minute details, wrapping gifts, assembling things, sewing stockings and even quilts as gifts, while watching Christmas Vacation on repeat… my little tradition. All the effort to make Christmas perfect, to keep the magic alive. And for what? To spend the actual day by myself, slowly cleaning up the remnants of a celebration that had felt rushed and obligatory?
It hurt. More than I was prepared for. More than I wanted to admit.
I tried to maintain the traditions, to keep caring. I still sent Christmas cards, though fewer people sent them back each year. I still bought thoughtful gifts for everyone. I still decorated my house like I was hosting a party, even though no party was coming. But it was getting harder. Each year, the loneliness cut a little deeper. The effort felt more futile and even draining.
The final straw came on a Christmas when none of my children could make it home at all. Not Christmas Eve. Not Christmas Day. Not even the week of Christmas.
“We’ll come in January,” they all promised. “We’ll do Christmas then.” But January isn’t Christmas. January is just January, cold and dark and depressingly ordinary.
That Christmas Day, I sat alone in my silent house. I didn’t bother with a tree. I didn’t cook a special meal. I didn’t even turn on Christmas music.
I just sat there, watching the winter sun move across the wall, while a tv series I’d seen a hundred times was on in the background, feeling something inside me finally break.
When you spend so much time and energy creating magic for other people, pouring your heart into a holiday that’s supposed to be about joy and togetherness, and then you spend the actual day utterly alone… something fundamental shifts. I was done. Done with Christmas. Done with the expectations. Done with the disappointment. Done with willingly stepping into that low, dark place that left me hollowed out and heartbroken.
When my daughter called that evening, cheerful and oblivious, wanting to tell me about her day, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her how I’d spent mine. I couldn’t lay that guilt on her. So I lied and said it had been nice, quiet, and peaceful. But when I hung up the phone, I made myself a promise… No more. I was officially done with Christmas.
CHAPTER THREE
The Decision
The next November, as retail stores began their premature assault of Christmas music and decorations, I felt something I hadn’t expected: relief.
I was sitting in my living room with a glass of wine, watching a Thanksgiving special on TV, when I realized I’d made it through an entire Black Friday without once thinking about Christmas shopping. No mental lists of gifts to buy and need to hit the sales. No anxiety about coordinating schedules. No dread of the inevitable loneliness waiting at the end of all that effort. Just… peace. ‘Thank you’, I thought silently, to no one in particular. ‘Thank you for not caring about Christmas anymore.’
It felt like setting down a weight I’d been carrying for years. Decades, maybe. Since that summer day on Dorchester Street when I’d learned that magic wasn’t real, I’d been trying to recreate it, to prove that wonder could still exist in the world. I’d been fighting to keep Christmas alive first for myself, then for my children, pouring everything I had into making the holiday meaningful. And now? I was giving up. Or maybe not giving up. Maybe just… letting go.
I made a plan. I’d still send cards and money to my kids; I wasn’t going to punish them for having their own lives. But I wouldn’t stress about finding the perfect gifts. I wouldn’t decorate. I wouldn’t host. I wouldn’t build up expectations that could only lead to crushing disappointment. I’d treat December 25th like any other day, and maybe, finally, I’d get through a holiday season without ending up gutted and hollow.
It felt like a good plan. A mature plan. A plan that would protect my heart. I congratulated myself on my wisdom and emotional intelligence. I should have known better than to think I’d get away with it.
I was at work on a Monday in late November, reviewing spreadsheets and trying to focus despite the Christmas muzak playing through the office speakers, when Marcy appeared at my cubicle. Marcy was one of those relentlessly cheerful people. The kind who wore holiday sweaters unironically and kept a bowl of candy canes on her desk year-round. We’d worked together for years, and I genuinely liked her, even if her enthusiasm could be exhausting. “Hey!” she said brightly, perching on the edge of my desk. “So, I need a favor.”
I looked up warily. “What kind of favor?”
“The children’s charity I volunteer with, you know, the one that does the holiday program? We’re really short-staffed this year, and we desperately need help. Would you be willing to pitch in?” My first instinct was to say no. To explain that I wasn’t doing Christmas this year, that I’d opted out, that she’d have to find someone else. But Marcy was looking at me with such hopeful expectation, and the words she’d used “children’s charity” were still echoing in my mind.
Children.
I’d never been able to say no to anything involving kids. It was my weakness, my soft spot, the crack in my armor that people could exploit without even trying. “What would I need to do?” I heard myself asking, even as part of my brain was screaming ‘No! Stick to the plan!’
Marcy’s face lit up. “Oh, thank you! Okay, so there’s a bunch of stuff. We work with local families who need assistance over the holidays, you know, parents who are struggling financially but want to make Christmas special for their kids. We coordinate donations, organize gift collections, put together food baskets, that kind of thing.”
She pulled out her phone and started scrolling through what looked like an extensive to-do list. “We need help matching donors with families, processing gift requests from the kids, coordinating the volunteer schedule for the big Christmas party we throw. Oh, and we need people to help at the actual party, it’s on Christmas Eve, and we have Santa give out gifts to all the kids, and there’s food and games…”
She kept talking, but I’d stopped listening after “Christmas Eve.” Of course it was Christmas Eve. Of course it was the exact night when I’d planned to successfully ignore Christmas altogether.
“I can help with the administrative stuff,” I said carefully. “The emails and lists and organization. But I don’t know about the party itself…”
“That’s perfect!” Marcy said, either not hearing or ignoring my hesitation. “Honestly, the behind-the-scenes work is what we need most. The party has plenty of volunteers, it’s the coordination beforehand that’s killing us. You’d be a lifesaver.” And just like that, I was committed.
As Marcy walked away, practically bouncing with gratitude, I stared at my computer screen and wondered how I’d let this happen. This was supposed to be the year I didn’t do Christmas. The year I protected my heart. The year I finally accepted that the holiday had changed and I didn’t have to keep chasing something that was gone. But apparently, the universe had other plans.
“So, you’ve signed up for a Christmas charity… So much for no Christmas this year,” Isaac scoffed.
Isaac was my best friend of many years, and he held a similar mindset about Christmas, though he’d never made the big proclamation about it the way I had. We were nursing pints at Murphy’s, our usual Monday night refuge, settled into our favorite table by the window.
“Laugh all you want, Christmas boy. I stand by my decision. Me helping out with a charity is the right thing to do. I still believe in the religious aspects of the holiday; it’s just all the hoopla I’ve written off. I’m tired of my heart being broken.”
His smile faded a bit. He knew I wasn’t just talking about Christmas.
We each took a sip of our pints and let the familiar atmosphere of the pub settle around us. Holiday music played softly in the background. Hockey highlights flickered across most of the TVs, though one screen inexplicably showed a golf match from some sunny, distant place. People milled around, regulars telling tall tales and laughing boisterously at the bar. Listening to it all, watching the easy rhythm of the place, relaxed me. This was one of my happy places. Isaac and I met up regularly for a pint at one of our favorite pubs; always places with atmosphere and lively characters who had claimed their own seats by the bar.
“You know,” Isaac said after a moment, “if you, with all your Christmas bah-humbug, can be inspired to help out, I think I want to as well. Sign me up.”
“Really? No Sebastian this Christmas Eve?” I asked. Sebastian was his son, who usually made it home for Christmas, though he seldom stayed past noon on Christmas Day because of his mother’s family obligations.
“Nope. I’m orphaned this Christmas, or whatever the term for it is. Sebastian got a deal on a ski trip with a group of friends. They leave the 24th and come back on the 30th. I’m hoping to have him at the house for New Year’s Day supper.”
My heart felt heavy again. Isaac loved Christmas, truly loved it. And the thing he loved most about it was spending it with his son. I understood this. I empathized with this, deeply. I decided to shake off the weight of it all.
“Well, lucky me, then,” I said brightly. “I get you all to myself for the holidays.”
“Does this mean we get to do the big Christmas thing? All the decorating, baking, singing, and so forth?” He pressed, his eyes lighting up with genuine hope.
“Don’t push your luck,” I responded with a smile.
“Okay, how about a little Christmas wedding instead?” He pushed further.
Isaac had a habit of almost proposing on a regular basis, mostly in jest, but sometimes it was hard to be sure. I had considered, in idle moments, what things might be like if he was actually serious. He was, after all, my best friend. But we’d never even so much as held hands. It would be nice to have someone to share the adventure with someone who was already in your inner circle, who could blend seamlessly into your life, who already knew about all your annoying habits.
But I had no intention of dating. I’d grown tired of the games years ago. The thought of investing in another person again was exhausting. I’d chosen poorly a couple of times, and those people had taken years from me, never appreciating my love and effort until I had no more to give them. Maybe they had taken all I had to give, period.
“Maybe next year,” I joked.
“Bah, rejected again.” Isaac raised his glass in mock salute. “Fine, but I will try again next year.” He took a sip, then leaned forward with genuine interest. “So tell me more about this charity. What can I help with?”
“Well, we’re short a few donors. The need is large this year, and there are some wishes left ungranted. Think you could swing a few gifts for the kids if I send you a list?”
“For sure. Make it a big list. I can’t resist seeing happy kids at Christmas. That’s what it’s about; children’s smiles, their hearts filled with magic and joy.”
As he said this, my brain flooded with overlapping images of my own kids at Christmas; their smiles, their laughter, their hugs. The memories came with equal measures of warmth and ache.
CHAPTER FOUR
Cookie Exchange
It turned out I had signed up for more than I’d bargained for.The next day at work, Marcy announced that there were a few “pre-Christmas events” scheduled, designed to fill the holiday season with as much joy as possible for the children. One of these events was a Christmas Cookie Exchange. The kids would be partnered with adults from the charity to bake their favorite cookie recipes. Then they’d exchange cookies with other kids and take home a mix of all the different varieties, putting them in tins to give to family, teachers, or anyone special to them.
I had to admit, it sounded like a great idea, despite my overall aversion to the whole thing.
I hadn’t baked Christmas cookies in a few years, so that night I went through my recipe box and pulled out the ones I thought might be the biggest crowd pleasers. As I spread the recipes across the kitchen table, some of the stained cards jumped out at me.
Death by Chocolate had been my daughter’s favorite.I remembered the first time she helped me make them. The kitchen had been covered in flour, egg shells, and smeared butter. She was covered in melted chocolate; or at least most of her face was. She’d needed help stirring the heavy dough, and I’d wrapped my arms around her small frame, guiding her hands. I could still feel it, how holding her made my insides feel like they would burst with love. I could hear her laughter, how it made all the mess fade away. She’d ended up scooping out huge amounts for each cookie. What should have been twelve cookies ended up being only five or six. Despite their size and the amount of chocolate in each one, they didn’t make it to the next day. She didn’t even have a stomach ache over it; or at least not one she let on about.
Then I saw the sugar cookie recipe.
I remembered making these each year, the kids all decorating them together. Craig, my oldest, always insisted on making superhero cookies. My second oldest, James, insisted on staying true to the holiday and would usually make a Santa or a Christmas tree. He would meticulously decorate each cookie, making one in the time my daughter would have decorated ten. Mike, my third, would use whatever cookie cutters I’d pulled out; typically only two or three shapes. He always used just a few colors when decorating his, but did so with great care. Vanessa had no rules. Sometimes it was the cookie cutters. Sometimes it was free-form shapes cut with a knife. Sometimes it was every color thrown on at once, and other times she took great care with the tiniest details.I found myself laughing at the thought of them all around the table, working intently, and then gobbling the cookies up before the icing had even hardened.
I pulled out two recipes: chocolate sugar cookies and gingersnaps. These were fairly easy to make and always crowd pleasers. I decided to write out the recipes and create recipe cards for the kids to take home, a keepsake of the day.
I printed the cards and added holiday stickers to them that I’d found in some old craft supplies. When I was done, I sat back at the table, taking a long look at what I’d just created, and laughed at myself.So much for opting out this Christmas. I was literally sitting by myself making Christmas crafts. But I didn’t feel bad about going against my own “rule.” I felt pretty good, as a matter of fact.
CHAPTER FIVE
It’s Cookie Day
The next day at work, I showed Marcy the cookie recipe cards.She snatched them out of my hands and let out a joyful squeal, flipping through them with the enthusiasm of a child opening presents. “Oh, I love this! Look what you did!” She held one up to the light, examining the holiday stickers I’d added. “The kids will be so happy to have these. This is exactly the kind of thing they’ll keep forever.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Okay, maybe I was getting a little caught up in the spirit of things.
“I told Isaac about cookie day,” I said. “He said he’s not great at baking, but he’s happy to help. He’s hoping we need taste testers.”Marcy laughed, her whole face lighting up. “Of course he is.”“He’s also committed to buying the last of the gifts we need for the kids,” I continued.
“Wow! That’s incredible of him.” Marcy pressed the recipe cards to her chest like they were precious. “It’s so great that the two of you are able to help so much. I think this will be our best year yet.”The cookie exchange was set for that Saturday. I picked up all the ingredients needed for several batches of each recipe, as well as a variety of tins for packaging them from the dollar store. I love Christmas tins; the vintage ones with snowmen and Santas, the shiny gold and silver ones, the ones shaped like cottages or drums. But there are only so many one person can reasonably have, and I already have significantly more than that number. Still, I couldn’t resist adding a few more to my collection.
I arrived early at the Legion hall where we’d be baking. A few other volunteers pulled into the parking lot around the same time, and we exchanged nods and smiles as we hauled boxes and bags toward the entrance. Inside, the hall smelled like old carpet and coffee, with faint traces of last night’s fish fry still lingering in the air.We got the tables set up with plastic tablecloths, bowls, measuring cups, and utensils. Marcy came in carrying an enormous box of cookie sheets, bags looped over both arms, struggling to keep everything balanced. I ran to help, grabbing the box just as it started to tilt precariously.
“Oh my God, thank you!” she gasped.
We both laughed as the box almost tipped anyway, imagining the chaos of baking sheets crashing across the floor. The moment of shared relief, that small disaster averted, felt absurdly good.As I set up my two workstations, arranging ingredients in neat rows, Marcy dropped a candy cane in front of me. “You’ll need your energy today,” she informed me with a knowing look.
“Way ahead of you.” I grinned. “I’m one coffee deep already and have a thermos of backup in my bag.”
Marcy laughed. “Smart woman. But candy canes are always better than coffee.”
I unwrapped it and popped it in my mouth, the sharp peppermint clearing my head instantly. Taking a step back, I marveled at my setup. Everything looked so neat and tidy; flour measured into bowls, butter softened and ready, recipe cards lined up perfectly. I knew it wouldn’t look this way for long. And then the memories flooded in again.
The kids covered in flour, handprints smeared across every surface. Their giggles echoing through the kitchen. Them looking up at me with wide smiles, faces sticky with chocolate, absolutely glowing with joy and love. Such sweet, incredible memories. Memories that hurt so much to recall now. My eyes began to fill, and I had to steel myself, blinking hard.At that moment, I felt a hand slide around my shoulder. It was Isaac.. He pulled me in a little, giving me a half-hug, and kept his hand on my shoulder as he looked at my tables.
“Morning, Humbug.” His voice was warm, teasing. “Look how organized you are. But you’re good at everything. I should know this by now.”
“Of course I am,” I laughed, grateful for the interruption. “That’s why I’m so good at choosing the best people for friends.”
I smiled at him, and he turned to look at me. The moment lingered.I felt something shift, a spark of electric tension building between us that I wasn’t used to. A swirl of emotions rose inside me, confusing and unsettling. Was this because I was feeling lonely? Sad? Or was there actually something more than friendship between us? Something I’d been too afraid or too busy to notice?
Fortunately, the fragile and slightly frightening moment was ended by the sound of children’s laughter. The kids had started to arrive.Someone put Christmas music on, and Burl Ives’ comforting voice filled the hall. I felt my shoulders relax. Marcy divided the kids into groups, clipboard in hand, calling out names and pointing to different stations. Parents poked around looking for ways to help, some confident and eager, others sitting nervously off to the side, unsure of their place in all this.
Isaac brought them coffee and started chatting with them in that easy way he had, making everyone feel like they belonged. Within minutes, I saw tense shoulders drop, tentative smiles appear. I was assigned a great group: two girls and three boys, ranging in age from six to eleven. They stood in a cluster, eyeing me and the tables with a mixture of excitement and uncertainty.
“Good morning, Christmas bakers!” I said brightly. “My name is Daniella. I’ve got two tables set up for us; one to make Chocolate Sugar Cookies and the other for Gingersnaps. Let’s split up into two groups and take a table, then we’ll switch. Sound good?”The kids were nervous, looking at one another, not sure what to do. Then a bold little boy, Timmy, according to his nametag, piped up.
“I hate gingersnaps, so I want to make the chocolate ones.”I laughed. “Fair enough! But…” I leaned down and whispered conspiratorially, “you’ll be able to trade the gingersnaps for some of the other cookies kids in other groups are making.”He looked up at me, his eyes widening with understanding. “Ooohhh, yeah! I forgot about that part. Okay, I’ll make those too, then.”
One of the other boys, David, and the older girl, Savannah, joined me at the chocolate cookie table. David was quiet, thin, probably around eight years old. His hair was slightly dry and dull in a way that suggested he might be malnourished. It made my heart ache. There was lunch provided today, but I found myself wondering if some of these kids had eaten breakfast this morning. Savannah was about eleven, with very good manners. Her pants were a bit too short, hitting above her ankles, but her clothes were neat and tidy, and her hair had obviously been done special for today, two careful French braids tied with red ribbons. She had natural leadership qualities, almost maternal, and immediately started organizing the boys.
“Okay, David, you measure the flour. Timmy, you can do the sugar,” she instructed, her voice confident but kind.
I shifted my attention to the other table. A bright, sparkly little girl named Suzie was practically bouncing with eagerness to start. The other boy, Mark, was about seven, eager too, but shy, hanging back slightly until I invited him closer. I laid out sheets of paper with the recipes written in large, clear print so they were easy to follow. The fancy recipe cards were for taking home.
Within minutes, the tables, and the children, were a glorious mess. Flour dusted the air like snow. Butter smeared across fingers. Someone giggled as cocoa powder puffed into a small cloud. It was brilliant to watch. They helped each other without being asked, reading the recipe steps aloud, cheering when they got the dough mixed just right.
It was exactly like I remembered my kids doing. And for the first time in years, being part of that chaos felt good instead of painful.We got our trays ready and lined up to wait for oven space. A group of adult volunteers handled the actual baking, but the kids all peeked in anxiously to check on their cookies, jostling for position in front of the oven, to be able to see through the window on the oven door.
“Are they done yet?” Asked David.
“Look, they’re getting puffy!” Said Timmy.
“Mine are the best ones.” Said Suzie.
While they waited, lunch was served. The kids surged toward the tables with an eagerness that went beyond normal childhood hunger. Some tried to take multiples of everything immediately, two sandwiches, three juice boxes, handfuls of chips. I recognized that reaction. They were worried there wouldn’t be enough. They needed to make sure they took full advantage, to guarantee a full belly.
A mix of emotions washed over me; sadness that they obviously feared going hungry, and joy that today, at least, they would have full tummies.
While the kids finished their lunches, I noticed Timmy standing near a Christmas display set up by the Legion staff. He looked around to see if anyone was watching, not noticing me observing from across the room. Then, quickly and deliberately, he snapped one of the ornaments in half. I walked over calmly.
“Hey, Timmy.”
He jumped, dropping the broken pieces, his face immediately defensive. “I didn’t do anything.”
I knelt down beside him, picking up the pieces. “I saw what happened. Can I ask you something? Why did you break it?”He shrugged, his jaw tight. “I don’t know. I just felt like it.”
“Okay,” I said gently. “But here’s the thing, you could be someone who destroys things, or you could be someone who creates things. You could take away from the world, or you could bring something positive to it. Which one sounds better to you?”
He stared at me, his expression hardening. “I’d rather just wreck stuff.”
“Really?” I kept my voice neutral, non-judgmental. “You wouldn’t rather be someone who makes something? Someone who changes things for the better?”
He crossed his arms. “No.”
I pushed a little further. “Okay. So there’s nothing in your whole life that you wish you could change? Nothing at all?”
He paused, his defiance wavering. “What do you mean?”
“I mean anything. Everything. If you could change one thing right now, right off the top of your head, what would it be?”
He thought for a moment, his face scrunching up. “Well… I wish I could change my little sister running into my room and wrecking my stuff all the time.”
I laughed softly. “Okay, I get that. Little sisters can be really annoying.” He nodded emphatically.
“So if you could change that, how do you think you could do it?”“Well, if my parents would just spank her, she’d stop,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Maybe,” I said carefully. “She might stop in the moment if they did that. But long-term, it might just make her angrier. And sometimes when people are angry, they don’t know what to do with those feelings, so they wreck things.”
He looked down at the broken ornament in my hand, something flickering across his face.
“Maybe,” I continued, “your sister’s coming into your room and touching your stuff because she doesn’t know how else to get your attention. Maybe she just wants to spend time with you.”He thought about that. “Well… that might be true. But she’s really annoying.”
“I’m sure she is,” I said with a smile. “But maybe she just doesn’t know how else to approach you. What if you helped her? What do you think about setting up a little spot in your room with a few things that she’s allowed to touch? You could tell her that if she comes into your room, she can’t touch your stuff, but these things are for her. Things she can play with while she’s in there with you.”He looked skeptical but intrigued. “I guess I could do that.”
“Maybe it’s worth a try,” I said. “And if you do, let me know how it works out, okay?”
He nodded slowly, and I led him back to the group to continue decorating cookies.
I didn’t see any more of that behavior from Timmy. He, along with all the kids, had a wonderful time decorating their cookies. The actual exchange part got a bit frantic and chaotic; I’d almost forgotten how much energy young children had. The room became a whirlwind of movement, voices calling out trades, small hands clutching precious tins.
True to his word, Timmy traded away every single gingersnap cookie. I watched him negotiate like a tiny businessman, carefully examining what other kids offered in return. Suzie, on the other hand, somehow ended up with more cookies than she’d made. Her little grin to me suggested that wasn’t an accident. I’m sure that beautiful smile often got her extra spoils when she turned it on.
The kids packed up their cookies in the tins, and I gave them each their recipe cards. It was so sweet hearing them tell each other who they intended to give their cookies to.
David said he wanted to give some to his bus driver. “I heard she got us all gifts,” he explained quietly, “and I wanted to make sure she got a gift, too.”
Suzie wanted to give hers to her grandparents. Savannah wanted to give hers to her mom. Mark wanted to give his to his hockey coach. Timmy, on the other hand, announced he was keeping his. I couldn’t help but laugh. Savannah immediately reminded him that he was supposed to give them to someone special. He thought for a moment, his face scrunching up, and then said he might give a few to his sister.
He smiled at me when he said that, and my heart squeezed. Isaac had been a big help with the lunch and had probably eaten his weight in cookies, claiming he only ate the “broken” ones. He seemed to have as much fun as the kids did, joking with them, helping them reach high shelves, pretending to be mortally wounded when one of them accidentally bumped him during a game of tag. I didn’t talk to him too much the rest of the day,we were both busy with different tasks, but I kept catching glimpses of him across the room. That moment between us earlier still lingered in my mind, unresolved. I wasn’t sure what it had been, but it definitely had my wheels turning.
The volunteers all began clearing tables, and dish duty had started. I hate doing dishes, so I carefully tried to avoid being roped into that particular task. Kids were still playing tag, their giggles mixing with the endless loop of Christmas music. This had been such a great day, and I was feeling a bit of that specific type of warm and fuzzy reserved for the season. I decided not to fight it. It was nice.
The parents began collecting their children, thanking us all profusely. Several mentioned how much their kids had talked about today all week. Suzie gave me a big hug that filled my heart to the point of overflowing. They all said goodbye, waving and calling out thank-yous.But Timmy was slow to leave. He lingered near the door, looking back several times. Then suddenly, he ran over and gave me a quick hug before darting out. I didn’t even have time to react, my arms were still at my sides when he was already halfway to his mother’s car.
His mother gave me a smile that suggested she was just as surprised as I was. I was so happy Timmy felt we had connected. You could tell he had a lot going on in his world. I was glad I could bring some happiness to his life, even if just for an afternoon. When the last people had cleared out, Isaac helped me carry everything to my car. The kids had each given me a cookie they’d made, and I had them carefully packed in amongst my supplies, nestled in paper towels to keep them from breaking.
Isaac eyed them longingly, but I warned him to keep his paws off.He definitely had a sweet tooth. “Well, if I can’t have any more cookies, I think it’s time for dinner. Feel like hitting Murphy’s with me?” he asked.
I swear he was a bottomless pit. Though the mention of Murphy’s had me craving their Yorkshire pudding. “I’m game. Should we meet there or go together and come back for your car?”
“You can drive. You’ll have to drive past here on the way home anyway, so I’ll get my car then.”
Isaac climbed into the passenger side. I smiled at him as I turned on the radio. “Ha ha ha, and now the real reason I wanted to drive, we listen to my music!” I announced triumphantly.Isaac sighed dramatically. “I should have known.”
“No Christmas music this evening. It’s all eighties now,” I said with delight.
“Mercy,” he muttered, but he was smiling.
Murphy’s was only five minutes away. The parking lot was packed, and I worried we wouldn’t get a table. Fortunately, they were just clearing one off as we walked in, a two-top near the window, perfect. I hung my purse on the chair and placed my coat over the back. That’s when I took inventory of my outfit. I had a bit more flour on me than I’d noticed when we left the Legion. White streaks across my black sweater, a smudge on my jeans.
I excused myself, and Isaac said he’d order me a pint. In the washroom, I dampened some paper towels and tried to tidy myself up, brushing at the flour, wiping the smudge. When I was done, I looked in the mirror and stared. The lighting in there wasn’t the greatest, it typically added a few years, but today I felt good seeing myself there. My cheeks were flushed from the cold and the activity. My eyes looked bright. Alive. I was feeling better than I’d anticipated feeling at this point in the season.
As I walked back to the table, I saw a waitress leaning over, chatting with Isaac. She was definitely being overly familiar with him, touching his shoulder, laughing a bit too loudly at something he’d said, leaning in close.
Watching her flirt with him sent a wave of heat through me. I was angry.
This was a new reaction. I’d never felt this way before seeing a woman flirt with Isaac. My thoughts began racing. Am I falling for Isaac ? Am I just being territorial? I wasn’t sure what to make of it.I decided I wasn’t going to overthink it, but I was going to shoo this nuisance away.
I “accidentally” bumped into her as I made my way to my seat. “Sorry about that,” I said sweetly.
She gave me a bit of a look, so I smiled brightly and asked her to get us some stuffed mushrooms as an appetizer while we sorted out what we wanted to eat.
“I’ll let your server know,” she replied coolly.
“Oh, you aren’t serving us? I just assumed. Was there something you needed here, then?” I asked, still smiling.
I caught a glimpse of Isaac ’s face. He looked highly amused.“Just saying hello,” she replied with obvious irritation.
“Hello,” I responded, still holding her gaze and my smile.
She glanced over at Isaac , then walked away, her heels clicking sharply against the floor.
“You’re terrible,” Isaac announced, shaking his head.
“Who knew you’d be so bothered by a woman being friendly with me?”
“She ticked me off for a few reasons,” I told him. “We come here all the time. Her acting like that makes it weird. Also, she has no idea what our deal is. Who hits on a man when he came in with another woman? She lacks any class.”
“You sure it has nothing to do with the fact that you’re actually in love with me?” He chuckled.
I felt a wave of heat pass over me, my cheeks flushing hot.“Oh my God, you just blushed,” he pointed out in shock.“No, I did not!” I corrected him.
“You most certainly did. I can’t remember the last time I saw you blush.”
He sat staring at me, and I pretended not to notice, picking up my menu and scanning its contents, though I knew every word on the paper. When he finally looked away and read his own menu, I put mine down.
I’d known what I was getting before we walked in the door.Our real waitress arrived with our pints. “Cheers. That was one heck of a day today,” I said, holding my glass up to connect with his.
Isaac clinked his glass to mine, took a sip, and then replied, “It really was. I’d almost forgotten what it’s like to be surrounded by children. I miss those years so much. It went by so fast. I can’t believe Sebastian is galavanting around the world with friends, like childhood is a distant memory.” He paused, his expression turning thoughtful. “I think helping out with this charity is going to be just the thing to help keep me sane this Christmas.”
“Me too,” I admitted. “I was dreading it when Marcy first asked, but it’s doing as much good for me as for the kids. I miss those years so much. I had a great group of kids today, such personalities. I actually had a nice moment with one boy. Seems like he’s going through some things, but we had a good chat.” I took a sip of my beer. “You never know when you might pop into someone’s life, even briefly, and help make a difference that directs them in a positive way. Even just bringing a moment of joy to someone can give them hope. Hope is something we all need.”
“It’s funny you mention that,” Isaac said, leaning forward. “I recently read an article about a study done in the fifties, I think. A scientist took a group of rats and put them in water. They drowned after fifteen minutes.”
“That’s terrible,” I interjected with full disgust.
“Oh, yeah, for sure. But what he discovered was if he saved the rats even once, they’d fight for a long time if placed back in the water, swimming for eighty hours or something crazy like that. It just goes to show the power of hope. Just thinking there’s a possibility of getting out can help you hold on longer.”
We both sat quietly when he finished, thinking. Was this charity someone saving me from drowning? I wondered. The waitress broke the somber moment, coming for our order. We changed the subject and enjoyed our dinner. The place was lively tonight, hockey highlights on the TVs, regulars telling their usual stories at the bar. The troublesome waitress was getting her fix of needed attention from an older gentleman alone at the bar. They both seemed to have a palpable need that I suspected would be resolved very shortly.
We left the pub and were met by a huge burst of icy wind, the kind that steals your breath. I spun around, away from it, Isaac instinctively pulled me into him to shield me, and I yielded, grateful for the protection. It passed almost instantly, and I looked up at him. He looked down at me, arms still embracing me, and I froze.
I felt like if I leaned in just a little, he’d kiss me. My heart started to pound so strongly I felt embarrassed, worried he might be able to tell.
He smiled, and I could tell he was just waiting for the go-ahead.But I couldn’t. I loved him, but I didn’t know if I could love him that way, if I should.
“Being tall sure makes you a fantastic shield,” I said with a chuckle as I turned away, attempting to redirect the mood.
“I’ll be your shield any day, Miss Humbug,” he replied.Oh great. Looks like that nickname is gaining traction. I wonder how long I’ll be stuck with that, I thought.
We made our way back to the Legion, listening to my music; though I suffered a few wisecracks about some of it. I pulled up beside his car and put my vehicle in park. Isaac looked toward his car, then looked back at me. He smiled, but only with his mouth. His eyes looked a little sad.
“Daniella, you know I love you. I’m not going to pressure you; your friendship is everything to me. But there was definitely something different today. I just want you to know I’m here. Whatever way you want me, I am here. If you decide you want more, I am all in.”
“I… I don’t know what to say,” I replied. I swallowed and almost choked. Nothing else came out.
Isaac smiled and leaned in, kissing my forehead gently. “That’s okay. We don’t need to go over it. I just wanted to tell you where I stand. Let’s leave it for now. I’ll see you again on Monday for our usual pint.”
As he got out of my car, he looked back and added, “And maybe you can torment that waitress some more.”
We both laughed, and I was relieved we ended on a light note.I drove away, headed home, reliving the day in my mind. It had been a great day, and I was feeling something I hadn’t anticipated.I was feeling the Christmas spirit. It had been evading me for the last few years, and here I was, the year I swore off Christmas, and now I was feeling it.
The next day, I found myself contemplating decorating. I went down to the basement and pulled out a couple of boxes. I pulled back the cardboard flaps and saw a menagerie of ribbon, glitter, and tissue paper. I unwrapped a few ornaments and held each one, remembering the kids fighting over who hung which one. I smiled and savored the happy memories.
Moving a couple more boxes, I came upon the artificial tree. It stopped me in my tracks. We used to get a real tree every year. Then one year, no one wanted to come with me to get it. Then another year like that. Tired of all the work of doing it myself… and the loneliness… I decided I’d had enough and bought a fake tree, hoping it would eliminate that sad part of things. But looking at it now, the sadness came flooding back anyway.I carefully packed up the ornaments and put the boxes back… though I did keep a ceramic snow-covered house out of one box. I couldn’t bring myself to put it away.
I brought it upstairs and set it on the kitchen counter beside the crock that held my cooking utensils. Stepping back, I analyzed it. How sad it looked all by itself. I looked around and could see no better place to put it. Maybe I should just put it back, I thought.
As I headed toward the basement stairs, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I reconsidered and brought it upstairs to my bedroom, placing it on my bedside table. “Perfect,” I said to myself. “The perfect place for a special little something.”
Monday morning, Marcy came hurrying to my desk, waving her phone at me.
“Did you see this?” she asked, practically shoving it in my face.I couldn’t even focus on the screen, I had no idea what she was trying to show me. “Stop waving that thing around. I can’t read it,” I said, taking hold of her hand in mine.
Holding the phone back slightly, I could see the screen was a Facebook page about the charity. I hadn’t realized there was a page for it. I scrolled through and saw pictures from our event Saturday. They were great shots; so many happy faces.One caught my attention.
It was me crouched down beside Suzie, helping her with the frosting. Off to the side was Isaac. He was staring at me with such a warm smile; tender, almost. Without thinking, I zoomed in.
Quickly I realized what I’d done. It was as if Marcy held her breath when I did it. I handed back her phone and felt a wave of embarrassment wash over me.
Marcy laughed sweetly. “I hadn’t thought that would be what you’d look at when I showed you. Is there something going on there? A bit of Christmas magic playing Cupid for you?”
“No, no! Not at all!” I protested. “I was just trying to see the picture better…” I had no idea where I was going with that.
Marcy chuckled and started scrolling through the post. “This is what I wanted to show you. Look at Timmy. How adorable.”
She pointed the screen back toward me. There he was, Timmy with his little sister, all smiles, holding the tin of cookies together. Their mother had posted the picture with the caption: “It was an incredible day. Thank you so much to our Christmas Angels for a fun day and for bringing my kiddos together. Timmy even likes gingersnaps now; who knew?”
That warm, fuzzy feeling swelled up inside me again.Friggin’ Christmas. You’re so determined I have the Christmas spirit, despite my best efforts, I thought to myself, with a little smile. “Well, our next event is the ornament and gift-making day,” Marcy explained. “We have a few ideas that have worked out each year, but we need a couple of new ideas for gifts the kids can make easily, things they’ll feel good about giving to loved ones. And I don’t want them to be limited to only doing one or two. They should be able to make as many as they want.” She looked at me expectantly.
“Do you think you could come up with some ideas? Maybe even supplies?”
My wheels were already turning. “I have a friend who manages a building supply. Maybe they can donate some materials to build little somethings. Ooh, maybe I can reach out for a variety of donations. Let me look online to come up with some ideas.”Visions danced in my head; little birdhouses, painting mugs, picture frames…
“I knew you would be such a godsend with this,” Marcy said warmly. “You have so many ideas, and the kids love you. Thanks again, Daniella. I’m so glad you’re helping out.”Marcy gripped my shoulder, her smile so warm it made my chest ache.
Darn warm and fuzzies, I thought.
“Marcy, this has been great for me too,” I admitted. “I’m so glad you asked me to help. I love seeing the kids enjoying Christmas.”
“This holiday is all about helping others, being the miracle,” Marcy said softly. “But children are the ones most in need and who best know how to receive the miracle. Christmas is my favorite time of year, but I live for these kids.”
I knew exactly what Marcy meant. This charity was bringing up a lot of old, wonderful memories about my kids’ early Christmases. But being in the moment with these kids was so much less painful than sitting home, reminiscing in silence on my own.
I was very distracted the rest of the day; not at all productive, at least for my employer. I did, however, manage to research some ideas. I found a mini Christmas tree idea that I loved, beaded earrings, soup and cookie recipes in mason jars, and little birdhouses.
I researched needed materials and planned how to get as many donated as possible. I posted on social media looking for people to donate old jars. I reached out to my friend for birdhouse kits and some other carpenter friends to create gingerbread house cutouts that could be easily assembled and painted.
That night, I went over my list with Isaac. We sat at Murphy’s, enjoying our pints and going through my notebook of ideas.“Wow, you’re really getting into this,” he said, flipping through the pages. “I love seeing you excited, especially when it’s Christmas-related.”
I couldn’t help a little eye roll at the Christmas sentiment. I was still fighting it off.
“I am really getting into it,” I admitted. “I always loved doing these things with the kids. I always felt like I was designed to do the little kid things. Playing, crafting, drawing, painting, singing… all the things kids happily do with you are in my wheelhouse. But the older they get, the less they want to do those things, and I sometimes find it hard to create the moments now.”
I could feel my mood shifting as I spoke, and I did not want to sit in that moment any longer. I composed myself, shook off the tears that were building, and looked around for something to change the tone. And there she was. Before Isaac had the chance to console me or give his input, I motioned to the previously offending waitress.
“Check it out,” I said.
Isaac turned and looked.
“Hey, isn’t that the guy from Saturday night?” he asked.
“Yep. Lonely boy and mantrap seem to have found their match,” I joked.
“Oh, you’re being mean,” he corrected me.
And he was right. I was deflecting a bit of my hurt feelings toward this woman who really hadn’t done anything so bad.
“Okay, that was a bit mean. Maybe we’re all just hoping to find our person. I wouldn’t begrudge anyone finding theirs.”
I took a sip of my beer before I choked on all this sentiment. Warm and fuzzy was creeping in again, and it felt a bit uncomfortable.Isaac leaned in a little. “Is that what you’re looking for? Are you looking for your person?”
I was staring at the table, trying to decide what to do. If I looked up, it was going to force me to say something I wasn’t sure about yet, or it was going to be another very awkward moment.
But I was taking too long to respond. I needed to be honest.Looking up directly at him, I said, “Isaac , I love you. You are my dearest friend. The thought of us has crossed my mind on more than one occasion over the years, and I’ll admit there have been some moments recently that are hard to deny. But I don’t know if this is happening because I’m lonely, you’re lonely, or the combination of both, or if there’s something real there. I’m scared to lose my best friend. I’m scared to jump in without understanding why, and then mess it all up.”
Isaac could tell how serious I was. He leaned back in his chair a bit, settling into what I’d said.
“I understand that, Daniella. I do. But what if fear is holding you back from having everything you ever wanted? I know I love you. I love you as my best friend, but I also love you as my forever. I think we could be each other’s everything.”
Ugh, that was perfect. Why did he have to say that so perfectly?Fortunately, the moment was saved, at least by my perspective, by a goal that sent the whole pub into roaring cheers. We both looked and saw the entire bar area cheering, giving each other high fives.
Looking back at each other, we smiled. Not because we cared about the goal, but because we enjoyed the cheer and the reprieve. Isaac reached his hand to mine and squeezed it. I didn’t pull away.
We finished our pints and appetizers with little more of the uncomfortableness that had occurred earlier. He took pictures of my notes and promised to help get supplies for the crafts. He offered to come help on Saturday with it all.
As we left the pub and headed out into the cold December air, I remembered what happened when we’d left here last time and moved quickly toward my car. Isaac followed me and opened my car door for me, standing in such a way that I couldn’t easily enter my vehicle. I put my purse on the seat and tried to casually look up at Isaac to say goodbye.
“Thanks for walking me out. I’ll touch base about the supplies. I think I can get the birdhouses, jars, and a few other things,” I said.“Okay. I can get paints, craft brushes, and definitely the stuff for the jars for soup and cookie recipes. If you think of anything else you want me to get, just let me know,” Isaac offered, still standing in the way.
The moment grew a little more awkward as it dragged on.Finally, he reached to give me a hug. In my relief that he hadn’t tried to kiss me, I relaxed and hugged him tightly, which caused him to squeeze me tighter. He held on for several moments. I could feel the warmth of his cheek against my head. And then I became aware he was smelling my hair.
I closed my eyes and waited for the moment to pass. I had so many conflicting emotions. I didn’t know what I wanted. This uncertainty made me reluctant to push him away. Isaac released me and stepped back. I got into my car, and he gave me one more smile.
“Drive safe, Humbug,” he instructed as he closed my car door.Again, I drove home confused. Thoughts of years past, all those memories, and what the years to come could look like swirled through my mind. The situation with Isaac was going to need to be addressed. Likely, if I rejected him, there would be a strain on our friendship. I didn’t feel like I could afford to play cavalier with his feelings here. I really needed to give the possibility of him and me real consideration.
It was a very contemplative evening for me, and I went to bed with a bit of a headache. All thoughts of the craft day had disappeared.The rest of the week went by quickly. Isaac and I had gathered all the supplies needed for the crafts I’d come up with. Marcy had people putting together supplies for ornament making. I found myself counting down to Saturday, not because it was the weekend, but because I got to see the kids.
I had liked the idea of the recipe cards so much that I decided to do the same with instructions for the crafts. I created cards and even pulled out a laminating machine from storage. This allowed me to print pictures of the crafts to include, which would be a good reference for those who had trouble reading the instructions.
It’s Cookie Day
The next day at work, I showed Marcy the cookie recipe cards.She snatched them out of my hands and let out a joyful squeal, flipping through them with the enthusiasm of a child opening presents. “Oh, I love this! Look what you did!” She held one up to the light, examining the holiday stickers I’d added. “The kids will be so happy to have these. This is exactly the kind of thing they’ll keep forever.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Okay, maybe I was getting a little caught up in the spirit of things.
“I told Isaac about cookie day,” I said. “He said he’s not great at baking, but he’s happy to help. He’s hoping we need taste testers.”Marcy laughed, her whole face lighting up. “Of course he is.”“He’s also committed to buying the last of the gifts we need for the kids,” I continued.
“Wow! That’s incredible of him.” Marcy pressed the recipe cards to her chest like they were precious. “It’s so great that the two of you are able to help so much. I think this will be our best year yet.”The cookie exchange was set for that Saturday. I picked up all the ingredients needed for several batches of each recipe, as well as a variety of tins for packaging them from the dollar store. I love Christmas tins; the vintage ones with snowmen and Santas, the shiny gold and silver ones, the ones shaped like cottages or drums. But there are only so many one person can reasonably have, and I already have significantly more than that number. Still, I couldn’t resist adding a few more to my collection.
I arrived early at the Legion hall where we’d be baking. A few other volunteers pulled into the parking lot around the same time, and we exchanged nods and smiles as we hauled boxes and bags toward the entrance. Inside, the hall smelled like old carpet and coffee, with faint traces of last night’s fish fry still lingering in the air.We got the tables set up with plastic tablecloths, bowls, measuring cups, and utensils. Marcy came in carrying an enormous box of cookie sheets, bags looped over both arms, struggling to keep everything balanced. I ran to help, grabbing the box just as it started to tilt precariously.
“Oh my God, thank you!” she gasped.
We both laughed as the box almost tipped anyway, imagining the chaos of baking sheets crashing across the floor. The moment of shared relief, that small disaster averted, felt absurdly good.As I set up my two workstations, arranging ingredients in neat rows, Marcy dropped a candy cane in front of me. “You’ll need your energy today,” she informed me with a knowing look.
“Way ahead of you.” I grinned. “I’m one coffee deep already and have a thermos of backup in my bag.”
Marcy laughed. “Smart woman. But candy canes are always better than coffee.”
I unwrapped it and popped it in my mouth, the sharp peppermint clearing my head instantly. Taking a step back, I marveled at my setup. Everything looked so neat and tidy; flour measured into bowls, butter softened and ready, recipe cards lined up perfectly. I knew it wouldn’t look this way for long. And then the memories flooded in again.
The kids covered in flour, handprints smeared across every surface. Their giggles echoing through the kitchen. Them looking up at me with wide smiles, faces sticky with chocolate, absolutely glowing with joy and love. Such sweet, incredible memories. Memories that hurt so much to recall now. My eyes began to fill, and I had to steel myself, blinking hard.At that moment, I felt a hand slide around my shoulder. It was Isaac.. He pulled me in a little, giving me a half-hug, and kept his hand on my shoulder as he looked at my tables.
“Morning, Humbug.” His voice was warm, teasing. “Look how organized you are. But you’re good at everything. I should know this by now.”
“Of course I am,” I laughed, grateful for the interruption. “That’s why I’m so good at choosing the best people for friends.”
I smiled at him, and he turned to look at me. The moment lingered.I felt something shift, a spark of electric tension building between us that I wasn’t used to. A swirl of emotions rose inside me, confusing and unsettling. Was this because I was feeling lonely? Sad? Or was there actually something more than friendship between us? Something I’d been too afraid or too busy to notice?
Fortunately, the fragile and slightly frightening moment was ended by the sound of children’s laughter. The kids had started to arrive.Someone put Christmas music on, and Burl Ives’ comforting voice filled the hall. I felt my shoulders relax. Marcy divided the kids into groups, clipboard in hand, calling out names and pointing to different stations. Parents poked around looking for ways to help, some confident and eager, others sitting nervously off to the side, unsure of their place in all this.
Isaac brought them coffee and started chatting with them in that easy way he had, making everyone feel like they belonged. Within minutes, I saw tense shoulders drop, tentative smiles appear. I was assigned a great group: two girls and three boys, ranging in age from six to eleven. They stood in a cluster, eyeing me and the tables with a mixture of excitement and uncertainty.
“Good morning, Christmas bakers!” I said brightly. “My name is Daniella. I’ve got two tables set up for us; one to make Chocolate Sugar Cookies and the other for Gingersnaps. Let’s split up into two groups and take a table, then we’ll switch. Sound good?”The kids were nervous, looking at one another, not sure what to do. Then a bold little boy, Timmy, according to his nametag, piped up.
“I hate gingersnaps, so I want to make the chocolate ones.”I laughed. “Fair enough! But…” I leaned down and whispered conspiratorially, “you’ll be able to trade the gingersnaps for some of the other cookies kids in other groups are making.”He looked up at me, his eyes widening with understanding. “Ooohhh, yeah! I forgot about that part. Okay, I’ll make those too, then.”
One of the other boys, David, and the older girl, Savannah, joined me at the chocolate cookie table. David was quiet, thin, probably around eight years old. His hair was slightly dry and dull in a way that suggested he might be malnourished. It made my heart ache. There was lunch provided today, but I found myself wondering if some of these kids had eaten breakfast this morning. Savannah was about eleven, with very good manners. Her pants were a bit too short, hitting above her ankles, but her clothes were neat and tidy, and her hair had obviously been done special for today, two careful French braids tied with red ribbons. She had natural leadership qualities, almost maternal, and immediately started organizing the boys.
“Okay, David, you measure the flour. Timmy, you can do the sugar,” she instructed, her voice confident but kind.
I shifted my attention to the other table. A bright, sparkly little girl named Suzie was practically bouncing with eagerness to start. The other boy, Mark, was about seven, eager too, but shy, hanging back slightly until I invited him closer. I laid out sheets of paper with the recipes written in large, clear print so they were easy to follow. The fancy recipe cards were for taking home.
Within minutes, the tables, and the children, were a glorious mess. Flour dusted the air like snow. Butter smeared across fingers. Someone giggled as cocoa powder puffed into a small cloud. It was brilliant to watch. They helped each other without being asked, reading the recipe steps aloud, cheering when they got the dough mixed just right.
It was exactly like I remembered my kids doing. And for the first time in years, being part of that chaos felt good instead of painful.We got our trays ready and lined up to wait for oven space. A group of adult volunteers handled the actual baking, but the kids all peeked in anxiously to check on their cookies, jostling for position in front of the oven, to be able to see through the window on the oven door.
“Are they done yet?” Asked David.
“Look, they’re getting puffy!” Said Timmy.
“Mine are the best ones.” Said Suzie.
While they waited, lunch was served. The kids surged toward the tables with an eagerness that went beyond normal childhood hunger. Some tried to take multiples of everything immediately, two sandwiches, three juice boxes, handfuls of chips. I recognized that reaction. They were worried there wouldn’t be enough. They needed to make sure they took full advantage, to guarantee a full belly.
A mix of emotions washed over me; sadness that they obviously feared going hungry, and joy that today, at least, they would have full tummies.
While the kids finished their lunches, I noticed Timmy standing near a Christmas display set up by the Legion staff. He looked around to see if anyone was watching, not noticing me observing from across the room. Then, quickly and deliberately, he snapped one of the ornaments in half. I walked over calmly.
“Hey, Timmy.”
He jumped, dropping the broken pieces, his face immediately defensive. “I didn’t do anything.”
I knelt down beside him, picking up the pieces. “I saw what happened. Can I ask you something? Why did you break it?”He shrugged, his jaw tight. “I don’t know. I just felt like it.”
“Okay,” I said gently. “But here’s the thing, you could be someone who destroys things, or you could be someone who creates things. You could take away from the world, or you could bring something positive to it. Which one sounds better to you?”
He stared at me, his expression hardening. “I’d rather just wreck stuff.”
“Really?” I kept my voice neutral, non-judgmental. “You wouldn’t rather be someone who makes something? Someone who changes things for the better?”
He crossed his arms. “No.”
I pushed a little further. “Okay. So there’s nothing in your whole life that you wish you could change? Nothing at all?”
He paused, his defiance wavering. “What do you mean?”
“I mean anything. Everything. If you could change one thing right now, right off the top of your head, what would it be?”
He thought for a moment, his face scrunching up. “Well… I wish I could change my little sister running into my room and wrecking my stuff all the time.”
I laughed softly. “Okay, I get that. Little sisters can be really annoying.” He nodded emphatically.
“So if you could change that, how do you think you could do it?”“Well, if my parents would just spank her, she’d stop,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Maybe,” I said carefully. “She might stop in the moment if they did that. But long-term, it might just make her angrier. And sometimes when people are angry, they don’t know what to do with those feelings, so they wreck things.”
He looked down at the broken ornament in my hand, something flickering across his face.
“Maybe,” I continued, “your sister’s coming into your room and touching your stuff because she doesn’t know how else to get your attention. Maybe she just wants to spend time with you.”He thought about that. “Well… that might be true. But she’s really annoying.”
“I’m sure she is,” I said with a smile. “But maybe she just doesn’t know how else to approach you. What if you helped her? What do you think about setting up a little spot in your room with a few things that she’s allowed to touch? You could tell her that if she comes into your room, she can’t touch your stuff, but these things are for her. Things she can play with while she’s in there with you.”He looked skeptical but intrigued. “I guess I could do that.”
“Maybe it’s worth a try,” I said. “And if you do, let me know how it works out, okay?”
He nodded slowly, and I led him back to the group to continue decorating cookies.
I didn’t see any more of that behavior from Timmy. He, along with all the kids, had a wonderful time decorating their cookies. The actual exchange part got a bit frantic and chaotic; I’d almost forgotten how much energy young children had. The room became a whirlwind of movement, voices calling out trades, small hands clutching precious tins.
True to his word, Timmy traded away every single gingersnap cookie. I watched him negotiate like a tiny businessman, carefully examining what other kids offered in return. Suzie, on the other hand, somehow ended up with more cookies than she’d made. Her little grin to me suggested that wasn’t an accident. I’m sure that beautiful smile often got her extra spoils when she turned it on.
The kids packed up their cookies in the tins, and I gave them each their recipe cards. It was so sweet hearing them tell each other who they intended to give their cookies to.
David said he wanted to give some to his bus driver. “I heard she got us all gifts,” he explained quietly, “and I wanted to make sure she got a gift, too.”
Suzie wanted to give hers to her grandparents. Savannah wanted to give hers to her mom. Mark wanted to give his to his hockey coach. Timmy, on the other hand, announced he was keeping his. I couldn’t help but laugh. Savannah immediately reminded him that he was supposed to give them to someone special. He thought for a moment, his face scrunching up, and then said he might give a few to his sister.
He smiled at me when he said that, and my heart squeezed. Isaac had been a big help with the lunch and had probably eaten his weight in cookies, claiming he only ate the “broken” ones. He seemed to have as much fun as the kids did, joking with them, helping them reach high shelves, pretending to be mortally wounded when one of them accidentally bumped him during a game of tag. I didn’t talk to him too much the rest of the day,we were both busy with different tasks, but I kept catching glimpses of him across the room. That moment between us earlier still lingered in my mind, unresolved. I wasn’t sure what it had been, but it definitely had my wheels turning.
The volunteers all began clearing tables, and dish duty had started. I hate doing dishes, so I carefully tried to avoid being roped into that particular task. Kids were still playing tag, their giggles mixing with the endless loop of Christmas music. This had been such a great day, and I was feeling a bit of that specific type of warm and fuzzy reserved for the season. I decided not to fight it. It was nice.
The parents began collecting their children, thanking us all profusely. Several mentioned how much their kids had talked about today all week. Suzie gave me a big hug that filled my heart to the point of overflowing. They all said goodbye, waving and calling out thank-yous.But Timmy was slow to leave. He lingered near the door, looking back several times. Then suddenly, he ran over and gave me a quick hug before darting out. I didn’t even have time to react, my arms were still at my sides when he was already halfway to his mother’s car.
His mother gave me a smile that suggested she was just as surprised as I was. I was so happy Timmy felt we had connected. You could tell he had a lot going on in his world. I was glad I could bring some happiness to his life, even if just for an afternoon. When the last people had cleared out, Isaac helped me carry everything to my car. The kids had each given me a cookie they’d made, and I had them carefully packed in amongst my supplies, nestled in paper towels to keep them from breaking.
Isaac eyed them longingly, but I warned him to keep his paws off.He definitely had a sweet tooth. “Well, if I can’t have any more cookies, I think it’s time for dinner. Feel like hitting Murphy’s with me?” he asked.
I swear he was a bottomless pit. Though the mention of Murphy’s had me craving their Yorkshire pudding. “I’m game. Should we meet there or go together and come back for your car?”
“You can drive. You’ll have to drive past here on the way home anyway, so I’ll get my car then.”
Isaac climbed into the passenger side. I smiled at him as I turned on the radio. “Ha ha ha, and now the real reason I wanted to drive, we listen to my music!” I announced triumphantly.Isaac sighed dramatically. “I should have known.”
“No Christmas music this evening. It’s all eighties now,” I said with delight.
“Mercy,” he muttered, but he was smiling.
Murphy’s was only five minutes away. The parking lot was packed, and I worried we wouldn’t get a table. Fortunately, they were just clearing one off as we walked in, a two-top near the window, perfect. I hung my purse on the chair and placed my coat over the back. That’s when I took inventory of my outfit. I had a bit more flour on me than I’d noticed when we left the Legion. White streaks across my black sweater, a smudge on my jeans.
I excused myself, and Isaac said he’d order me a pint. In the washroom, I dampened some paper towels and tried to tidy myself up, brushing at the flour, wiping the smudge. When I was done, I looked in the mirror and stared. The lighting in there wasn’t the greatest, it typically added a few years, but today I felt good seeing myself there. My cheeks were flushed from the cold and the activity. My eyes looked bright. Alive. I was feeling better than I’d anticipated feeling at this point in the season.
As I walked back to the table, I saw a waitress leaning over, chatting with Isaac. She was definitely being overly familiar with him, touching his shoulder, laughing a bit too loudly at something he’d said, leaning in close.
Watching her flirt with him sent a wave of heat through me. I was angry.
This was a new reaction. I’d never felt this way before seeing a woman flirt with Isaac. My thoughts began racing. Am I falling for Isaac ? Am I just being territorial? I wasn’t sure what to make of it.I decided I wasn’t going to overthink it, but I was going to shoo this nuisance away.
I “accidentally” bumped into her as I made my way to my seat. “Sorry about that,” I said sweetly.
She gave me a bit of a look, so I smiled brightly and asked her to get us some stuffed mushrooms as an appetizer while we sorted out what we wanted to eat.
“I’ll let your server know,” she replied coolly.
“Oh, you aren’t serving us? I just assumed. Was there something you needed here, then?” I asked, still smiling.
I caught a glimpse of Isaac ’s face. He looked highly amused.“Just saying hello,” she replied with obvious irritation.
“Hello,” I responded, still holding her gaze and my smile.
She glanced over at Isaac , then walked away, her heels clicking sharply against the floor.
“You’re terrible,” Isaac announced, shaking his head.
“Who knew you’d be so bothered by a woman being friendly with me?”
“She ticked me off for a few reasons,” I told him. “We come here all the time. Her acting like that makes it weird. Also, she has no idea what our deal is. Who hits on a man when he came in with another woman? She lacks any class.”
“You sure it has nothing to do with the fact that you’re actually in love with me?” He chuckled.
I felt a wave of heat pass over me, my cheeks flushing hot.“Oh my God, you just blushed,” he pointed out in shock.“No, I did not!” I corrected him.
“You most certainly did. I can’t remember the last time I saw you blush.”
He sat staring at me, and I pretended not to notice, picking up my menu and scanning its contents, though I knew every word on the paper. When he finally looked away and read his own menu, I put mine down.
I’d known what I was getting before we walked in the door.Our real waitress arrived with our pints. “Cheers. That was one heck of a day today,” I said, holding my glass up to connect with his.
Isaac clinked his glass to mine, took a sip, and then replied, “It really was. I’d almost forgotten what it’s like to be surrounded by children. I miss those years so much. It went by so fast. I can’t believe Sebastian is galavanting around the world with friends, like childhood is a distant memory.” He paused, his expression turning thoughtful. “I think helping out with this charity is going to be just the thing to help keep me sane this Christmas.”
“Me too,” I admitted. “I was dreading it when Marcy first asked, but it’s doing as much good for me as for the kids. I miss those years so much. I had a great group of kids today, such personalities. I actually had a nice moment with one boy. Seems like he’s going through some things, but we had a good chat.” I took a sip of my beer. “You never know when you might pop into someone’s life, even briefly, and help make a difference that directs them in a positive way. Even just bringing a moment of joy to someone can give them hope. Hope is something we all need.”
“It’s funny you mention that,” Isaac said, leaning forward. “I recently read an article about a study done in the fifties, I think. A scientist took a group of rats and put them in water. They drowned after fifteen minutes.”
“That’s terrible,” I interjected with full disgust.
“Oh, yeah, for sure. But what he discovered was if he saved the rats even once, they’d fight for a long time if placed back in the water, swimming for eighty hours or something crazy like that. It just goes to show the power of hope. Just thinking there’s a possibility of getting out can help you hold on longer.”
We both sat quietly when he finished, thinking. Was this charity someone saving me from drowning? I wondered. The waitress broke the somber moment, coming for our order. We changed the subject and enjoyed our dinner. The place was lively tonight, hockey highlights on the TVs, regulars telling their usual stories at the bar. The troublesome waitress was getting her fix of needed attention from an older gentleman alone at the bar. They both seemed to have a palpable need that I suspected would be resolved very shortly.
We left the pub and were met by a huge burst of icy wind, the kind that steals your breath. I spun around, away from it, Isaac instinctively pulled me into him to shield me, and I yielded, grateful for the protection. It passed almost instantly, and I looked up at him. He looked down at me, arms still embracing me, and I froze.
I felt like if I leaned in just a little, he’d kiss me. My heart started to pound so strongly I felt embarrassed, worried he might be able to tell.
He smiled, and I could tell he was just waiting for the go-ahead.But I couldn’t. I loved him, but I didn’t know if I could love him that way, if I should.
“Being tall sure makes you a fantastic shield,” I said with a chuckle as I turned away, attempting to redirect the mood.
“I’ll be your shield any day, Miss Humbug,” he replied.Oh great. Looks like that nickname is gaining traction. I wonder how long I’ll be stuck with that, I thought.
We made our way back to the Legion, listening to my music; though I suffered a few wisecracks about some of it. I pulled up beside his car and put my vehicle in park. Isaac looked toward his car, then looked back at me. He smiled, but only with his mouth. His eyes looked a little sad.
“Daniella, you know I love you. I’m not going to pressure you; your friendship is everything to me. But there was definitely something different today. I just want you to know I’m here. Whatever way you want me, I am here. If you decide you want more, I am all in.”
“I… I don’t know what to say,” I replied. I swallowed and almost choked. Nothing else came out.
Isaac smiled and leaned in, kissing my forehead gently. “That’s okay. We don’t need to go over it. I just wanted to tell you where I stand. Let’s leave it for now. I’ll see you again on Monday for our usual pint.”
As he got out of my car, he looked back and added, “And maybe you can torment that waitress some more.”
We both laughed, and I was relieved we ended on a light note.I drove away, headed home, reliving the day in my mind. It had been a great day, and I was feeling something I hadn’t anticipated.I was feeling the Christmas spirit. It had been evading me for the last few years, and here I was, the year I swore off Christmas, and now I was feeling it.
The next day, I found myself contemplating decorating. I went down to the basement and pulled out a couple of boxes. I pulled back the cardboard flaps and saw a menagerie of ribbon, glitter, and tissue paper. I unwrapped a few ornaments and held each one, remembering the kids fighting over who hung which one. I smiled and savored the happy memories.
Moving a couple more boxes, I came upon the artificial tree. It stopped me in my tracks. We used to get a real tree every year. Then one year, no one wanted to come with me to get it. Then another year like that. Tired of all the work of doing it myself… and the loneliness… I decided I’d had enough and bought a fake tree, hoping it would eliminate that sad part of things. But looking at it now, the sadness came flooding back anyway.I carefully packed up the ornaments and put the boxes back… though I did keep a ceramic snow-covered house out of one box. I couldn’t bring myself to put it away.
I brought it upstairs and set it on the kitchen counter beside the crock that held my cooking utensils. Stepping back, I analyzed it. How sad it looked all by itself. I looked around and could see no better place to put it. Maybe I should just put it back, I thought.
As I headed toward the basement stairs, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I reconsidered and brought it upstairs to my bedroom, placing it on my bedside table. “Perfect,” I said to myself. “The perfect place for a special little something.”
Monday morning, Marcy came hurrying to my desk, waving her phone at me.
“Did you see this?” she asked, practically shoving it in my face.I couldn’t even focus on the screen, I had no idea what she was trying to show me. “Stop waving that thing around. I can’t read it,” I said, taking hold of her hand in mine.
Holding the phone back slightly, I could see the screen was a Facebook page about the charity. I hadn’t realized there was a page for it. I scrolled through and saw pictures from our event Saturday. They were great shots; so many happy faces.One caught my attention.
It was me crouched down beside Suzie, helping her with the frosting. Off to the side was Isaac. He was staring at me with such a warm smile; tender, almost. Without thinking, I zoomed in.
Quickly I realized what I’d done. It was as if Marcy held her breath when I did it. I handed back her phone and felt a wave of embarrassment wash over me.
Marcy laughed sweetly. “I hadn’t thought that would be what you’d look at when I showed you. Is there something going on there? A bit of Christmas magic playing Cupid for you?”
“No, no! Not at all!” I protested. “I was just trying to see the picture better…” I had no idea where I was going with that.
Marcy chuckled and started scrolling through the post. “This is what I wanted to show you. Look at Timmy. How adorable.”
She pointed the screen back toward me. There he was, Timmy with his little sister, all smiles, holding the tin of cookies together. Their mother had posted the picture with the caption: “It was an incredible day. Thank you so much to our Christmas Angels for a fun day and for bringing my kiddos together. Timmy even likes gingersnaps now; who knew?”
That warm, fuzzy feeling swelled up inside me again.Friggin’ Christmas. You’re so determined I have the Christmas spirit, despite my best efforts, I thought to myself, with a little smile. “Well, our next event is the ornament and gift-making day,” Marcy explained. “We have a few ideas that have worked out each year, but we need a couple of new ideas for gifts the kids can make easily, things they’ll feel good about giving to loved ones. And I don’t want them to be limited to only doing one or two. They should be able to make as many as they want.” She looked at me expectantly.
“Do you think you could come up with some ideas? Maybe even supplies?”
My wheels were already turning. “I have a friend who manages a building supply. Maybe they can donate some materials to build little somethings. Ooh, maybe I can reach out for a variety of donations. Let me look online to come up with some ideas.”Visions danced in my head; little birdhouses, painting mugs, picture frames…
“I knew you would be such a godsend with this,” Marcy said warmly. “You have so many ideas, and the kids love you. Thanks again, Daniella. I’m so glad you’re helping out.”Marcy gripped my shoulder, her smile so warm it made my chest ache.
Darn warm and fuzzies, I thought.
“Marcy, this has been great for me too,” I admitted. “I’m so glad you asked me to help. I love seeing the kids enjoying Christmas.”
“This holiday is all about helping others, being the miracle,” Marcy said softly. “But children are the ones most in need and who best know how to receive the miracle. Christmas is my favorite time of year, but I live for these kids.”
I knew exactly what Marcy meant. This charity was bringing up a lot of old, wonderful memories about my kids’ early Christmases. But being in the moment with these kids was so much less painful than sitting home, reminiscing in silence on my own.
I was very distracted the rest of the day; not at all productive, at least for my employer. I did, however, manage to research some ideas. I found a mini Christmas tree idea that I loved, beaded earrings, soup and cookie recipes in mason jars, and little birdhouses.
I researched needed materials and planned how to get as many donated as possible. I posted on social media looking for people to donate old jars. I reached out to my friend for birdhouse kits and some other carpenter friends to create gingerbread house cutouts that could be easily assembled and painted.
That night, I went over my list with Isaac. We sat at Murphy’s, enjoying our pints and going through my notebook of ideas.“Wow, you’re really getting into this,” he said, flipping through the pages. “I love seeing you excited, especially when it’s Christmas-related.”
I couldn’t help a little eye roll at the Christmas sentiment. I was still fighting it off.
“I am really getting into it,” I admitted. “I always loved doing these things with the kids. I always felt like I was designed to do the little kid things. Playing, crafting, drawing, painting, singing… all the things kids happily do with you are in my wheelhouse. But the older they get, the less they want to do those things, and I sometimes find it hard to create the moments now.”
I could feel my mood shifting as I spoke, and I did not want to sit in that moment any longer. I composed myself, shook off the tears that were building, and looked around for something to change the tone. And there she was. Before Isaac had the chance to console me or give his input, I motioned to the previously offending waitress.
“Check it out,” I said.
Isaac turned and looked.
“Hey, isn’t that the guy from Saturday night?” he asked.
“Yep. Lonely boy and mantrap seem to have found their match,” I joked.
“Oh, you’re being mean,” he corrected me.
And he was right. I was deflecting a bit of my hurt feelings toward this woman who really hadn’t done anything so bad.
“Okay, that was a bit mean. Maybe we’re all just hoping to find our person. I wouldn’t begrudge anyone finding theirs.”
I took a sip of my beer before I choked on all this sentiment. Warm and fuzzy was creeping in again, and it felt a bit uncomfortable.Isaac leaned in a little. “Is that what you’re looking for? Are you looking for your person?”
I was staring at the table, trying to decide what to do. If I looked up, it was going to force me to say something I wasn’t sure about yet, or it was going to be another very awkward moment.
But I was taking too long to respond. I needed to be honest.Looking up directly at him, I said, “Isaac , I love you. You are my dearest friend. The thought of us has crossed my mind on more than one occasion over the years, and I’ll admit there have been some moments recently that are hard to deny. But I don’t know if this is happening because I’m lonely, you’re lonely, or the combination of both, or if there’s something real there. I’m scared to lose my best friend. I’m scared to jump in without understanding why, and then mess it all up.”
Isaac could tell how serious I was. He leaned back in his chair a bit, settling into what I’d said.
“I understand that, Daniella. I do. But what if fear is holding you back from having everything you ever wanted? I know I love you. I love you as my best friend, but I also love you as my forever. I think we could be each other’s everything.”
Ugh, that was perfect. Why did he have to say that so perfectly?Fortunately, the moment was saved, at least by my perspective, by a goal that sent the whole pub into roaring cheers. We both looked and saw the entire bar area cheering, giving each other high fives.
Looking back at each other, we smiled. Not because we cared about the goal, but because we enjoyed the cheer and the reprieve. Isaac reached his hand to mine and squeezed it. I didn’t pull away.
We finished our pints and appetizers with little more of the uncomfortableness that had occurred earlier. He took pictures of my notes and promised to help get supplies for the crafts. He offered to come help on Saturday with it all.
As we left the pub and headed out into the cold December air, I remembered what happened when we’d left here last time and moved quickly toward my car. Isaac followed me and opened my car door for me, standing in such a way that I couldn’t easily enter my vehicle. I put my purse on the seat and tried to casually look up at Isaac to say goodbye.
“Thanks for walking me out. I’ll touch base about the supplies. I think I can get the birdhouses, jars, and a few other things,” I said.“Okay. I can get paints, craft brushes, and definitely the stuff for the jars for soup and cookie recipes. If you think of anything else you want me to get, just let me know,” Isaac offered, still standing in the way.
The moment grew a little more awkward as it dragged on.Finally, he reached to give me a hug. In my relief that he hadn’t tried to kiss me, I relaxed and hugged him tightly, which caused him to squeeze me tighter. He held on for several moments. I could feel the warmth of his cheek against my head. And then I became aware he was smelling my hair.
I closed my eyes and waited for the moment to pass. I had so many conflicting emotions. I didn’t know what I wanted. This uncertainty made me reluctant to push him away. Isaac released me and stepped back. I got into my car, and he gave me one more smile.
“Drive safe, Humbug,” he instructed as he closed my car door.Again, I drove home confused. Thoughts of years past, all those memories, and what the years to come could look like swirled through my mind. The situation with Isaac was going to need to be addressed. Likely, if I rejected him, there would be a strain on our friendship. I didn’t feel like I could afford to play cavalier with his feelings here. I really needed to give the possibility of him and me real consideration.
It was a very contemplative evening for me, and I went to bed with a bit of a headache. All thoughts of the craft day had disappeared.The rest of the week went by quickly. Isaac and I had gathered all the supplies needed for the crafts I’d come up with. Marcy had people putting together supplies for ornament making. I found myself counting down to Saturday, not because it was the weekend, but because I got to see the kids.
I had liked the idea of the recipe cards so much that I decided to do the same with instructions for the crafts. I created cards and even pulled out a laminating machine from storage. This allowed me to print pictures of the crafts to include, which would be a good reference for those who had trouble reading the instructions.
I was quite pleased with myself for the ideas and the cards I’d created. Friday night, I went to bed early; or at least I tried. I found myself excited for Saturday. I couldn’t wait to see the kids.
Eventually I dozed off, and I was groggy when my alarm went off. When it occurred to me what day it was, I immediately perked up. I brewed the coffee and hopped in the shower. I wasn’t able to load the car the night before because of the glass jars, so I had to get it loaded in the morning. Every extra task seemed to take forever. I couldn’t wait to arrive at the Legion.
When I arrived, there were already other volunteers there. A nice gentleman named Bruce helped me carry in my supplies. The tables already had the plastic Christmas cloths on them. Isaac arrived with another coffee for me, which I was very grateful for. I got the craft supplies organized, and Isaac was handling the soup and cookie recipe tables. I had found funnels from the dollar store, as well as a wide variety of beads and little decorations. I was thrilled when I surveyed the tables, they looked so bright and colorful.
Someone turned on the Christmas music, and the warm and fuzzies hit. I couldn’t decide if I should just let go of my whole anti-Christmas thing, especially as I stood there in all the Christmas glory of the day, or if I should stay grounded. Enjoy the day for what it is and just move on.
Before I could decide, the doors burst open and the children began flooding in.
“Daniella! Daniella!” Timmy came running towards me. He was giddy with excitement.
“Hey, buddy! What’s up?”
“I did it! I did what you said!”
“You did?” I knelt down to his level. “Tell me what happened.”
“I got some of my old toys, ones I don’t play with anymore, and I put them in a box in my room. And I told my sister she could only play with those toys when she came in. And you know what?”
“What?” I asked.
“I came home one day, and she was in my room, but she wasn’t wrecking anything! She was just playing with the toys I gave her. So I sat down and played with her.” His face was glowing. “We had a really good time. It was actually fun.”
My throat tightened with emotion. “Timmy, that’s amazing. I’m so proud of you.”
“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “It was way better than being mad at her all the time.”
He ran off to join the other kids, and I stood there, watching him go, feeling something fill up in my chest. Something that felt an awful lot like hope.
I took a moment to pause and let it sink in, instead of fighting it off the way I’d been doing for months. Yes, I was going against my no-Christmas rule. Again. But that rule had been born from a need to protect my heart from hurt, to build walls high enough that disappointment couldn’t scale them.
Letting Christmas in now, though? It felt different. It felt good for me. Good for my heart. Standing there in that community hall, surrounded by excited children and the cheerful chaos of craft supplies, I realized something fundamental: just because I’d had my feelings hurt in years past didn’t mean I should diminish what Christmas could be for others. And maybe, just maybe, the best way I could make sure these families truly enjoyed this holiday was to embrace the joy in it myself. Not the performative joy I’d been faking for years. The real thing.
I looked over and found Isaac staring at me from across the room. There was something knowing in his expression, a slight smile playing at his lips. I suspected he could see it; that shift happening inside me, the walls coming down, the spirit of the season seeping back in.
I smiled back, feeling a little coy, a little caught, and nodded toward his tables where a crowd of eager children was gathering. “Get back to work,” I mouthed. He grinned and gave me a mock salute before turning his attention to the kids clustered around him, all bouncing with anticipation.
My own tables were similarly surrounded. Small faces looked up at me expectantly, hands already reaching for supplies before I’d even explained the projects.
“Okay, okay,” I laughed, moving into position. “Let me show you how these work first, and then you can go crazy. Deal?” A chorus of “Deal!” echoed back at me.
I walked them through the various crafts, pinecone Christmas trees with beads and glitter, mason jar snow globes, handprint reindeer cards. Some required drying time for glue or paint, so we set up a rotation system. Kids would start one project, move to another table while the first dried, then circle back to complete it. The system worked beautifully, creating a constant flow of excited children moving through the space like a well-choreographed dance.
Suzie appeared at my elbow again, her focus immediately drawn to the pinecone trees. She settled into her chair with the concentration of a master craftsman, carefully selecting each bead, positioning every bit of glitter with precision. After watching her complete her third tree, I couldn’t help but comment. “Looks like you’re building a Christmas forest.”
Suzie giggled, the sound pure and unselfconscious. “Yes! I love Christmas trees. Last year we got a real one and it was the best.” She lifted one of the pinecones to her nose and inhaled deeply. “These pinecones smell like that tree. The smell was the best part. That was our best Christmas tree ever.”
Something in my chest tightened at the simple joy in her voice, the way she treasured that memory. “Who are you making all these trees for?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“Everyone!” Suzie exclaimed, her smile radiant.
“Oh my goodness,” I chuckled. “You’ll definitely need to make a lot if you’re giving them to everyone.”
“I sure do.” Her expression turned serious, worried. “I just hope I have enough time to get them all done.”
I reached over and gently touched her shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you have all the time you need.”
She looked up at me, and the smile she gave me was so beautiful, so full of trust and gratitude, that I had to blink back sudden tears. She returned to her work, humming along with the Christmas music that continued to play through the speakers. And I found myself humming too. Then singing softly. Then singing at full volume, completely unselfconscious about it.
Marcy noticed, of course. She materialized beside me, grinning like she’d won the lottery. “Looks like we found our choir leader for next weekend.”
I could feel my face flush hot with the anticipation of embarrassment. “Oh no. You won’t get me doing that.”
“You have a beautiful voice and the kids love you.” Marcy pressed. “You’re perfect for the job.”
“No, Marcy.” I made my voice firm, put steel in my spine. “I’m happy to help, but I am not comfortable being in charge of singing next weekend.”
Something in my body language, the set of my shoulders, perhaps, or the look in my eyes, must have convinced her. She conceded with a small nod. “Okay, okay. I’ll just be happy to have you there to help.”
“That I can do,” I promised.
And immediately, my wheels started turning. If I wasn’t going to lead the singing, I could still contribute in other ways. Little music books for the kids, maybe? Something with all the Christmas classics printed out so they could follow along. Lyrics to “Jingle Bells” and “Rudolph” and “Silent Night.”
I was already making a mental list of songs to include, mentally designing the little booklets, when a crash of shattering glass snapped me back to reality. Or rather, not glass. A jar of glitter.
One of the boys had been struggling to open it, and I’d been so lost in my planning that I’d failed to notice until it was too late. The lid had come off with such force that the jar flew from his hands, and now there was a galaxy of silver sparkle covering approximately three square feet of floor, two chairs, and four children.
“Oh no,” the boy whispered, his eyes going wide with horror.
“It’s okay,” I said quickly, even as I surveyed the damage and thought, ‘We’ll all be finding random sparkles on us for weeks now.‘ That stuff had a supernatural tendency to spread and persist long after any reasonable cleaning effort. “These things happen. Let’s just get it cleaned up.”
By the time we’d swept and vacuumed and wiped down every glitter-contaminated surface, and person, I was fairly certain I was now at least thirty percent glitter by body weight. There was sparkle in my hair, under my fingernails, somehow inside my shoe. But the day had been so much fun. There was glue, glitter, and paint on all of us by the end, evidence of hours of creative chaos and joy.
As we were packing up supplies, Isaac approached with something hidden behind his back and a theatrical expression on his face.
“For you, Miss Humbug,” he proclaimed, presenting me with one of the mason jars from the cookie recipe project. He’d decorated it beautifully, with a ribbon tied around the lid and a handwritten tag that read “For Daniella, from your friend in Christmas.”
I felt something warm bloom in my chest. “Good work, Christmas Boy!” I said, taking the gift.
“Of course,” he continued, his expression turning mischievous, “your acceptance of this means you agree to my terms.”
“Terms?” I raised an eyebrow. “What terms?”
“You agree to make these cookies and share them with me.” His face had a childlike quality to it, all pride and playfulness.
“Oh really?” I tried to sound skeptical, but I was already planning when I’d make them. “I don’t know if it’s fair to add terms ‘after‘ I’ve already taken the gift.”
“I’m comfortable with what I did,” Isaac laughed. Then he bumped my shoulder with his. “So how about it? Shall we bake some cookies tomorrow?”
The easy camaraderie between us, the simple pleasure of his company, the prospect of a lazy Sunday baking cookies, it all sounded perfect. “You’re in luck. I am free tomorrow. I think I can be persuaded into making cookies, especially if you’re bringing wine when you come.”
“Deal! What wine goes best with cookies?” He looked genuinely puzzled.
“They all do,” I stated matter-of-factly.
Isaac laughed. “I suppose you’re right.”
As we were finishing the cleanup, wrestling folding tables back into storage, sweeping the last of the glitter, collecting stray craft supplies… my phone buzzed.
A text from James: ‘Sorry mom, I know I said I’d call today, but I’m headed out with Lin, I won’t be able to call. I’ll try to call tomorrow.‘
It felt like someone had dimmed the lights in the room. All the warmth and joy from the day seemed to drain away, replaced by that familiar hollow ache. I was missing him. Missing all of them. My children, scattered across different cities, living their lives, so busy that even phone calls had become difficult to coordinate.
I must have let my expression slip, because Marcy noticed immediately. She came over, her face creased with concern. “You okay?”
At first I was reluctant to share, I didn’t want to dampen the day, didn’t want to bring my personal sadness into this space we’d created for others. But eventually I gave her a brief accounting of what I was feeling. The distance from my children. The cancelled calls. The way Christmas had become something to negotiate rather than something to celebrate together. She listened without interrupting, and when I finished, her eyes were soft with understanding.
“I know how hard this holiday can be, especially when your kids are hitting adulthood,” she said quietly. “I went through it. I guess I still go through it every year.” She paused, seeming to consider her words carefully. “That’s part of why I do this work every year. I get as much out of it as the kids do. That’s the thing about doing good for others, it gives to them and to you.”
She reached out and hugged me, and I hugged her back with genuine appreciation. I needed that hug. Needed the reminder that I wasn’t alone in this particular grief.
“I thought you might need something like this, this year,” Marcy continued. “I could tell you were carrying something heavy. I know I pushed a bit hard to get you involved…” She smiled ruefully. “But that’s how I love.”
“You were right,” I said softly. “I needed this.”
As I was packing up my car following the grueling cleanup of the hall, Isaac carried the last box out to me.
“Murphy’s?” he asked casually. “Stella?”
Going to Murphy’s for a pint after these events was becoming a ritual between us, one I found myself looking forward to. My first instinct was to say no; I was tired, emotionally raw from James’s text, and part of me just wanted to go home and wallow. But I reconsidered. It was always good to get out. And Isaac ’s company had a way of making everything feel lighter.
“Sure,” I said. “Let me drop this stuff at home first, and I’ll meet you there.”
“I’ll just ride with you,” he said, already climbing into my passenger seat. “Save us both the hassle.”
Without instruction, he reached over and tuned my radio to my preferred station. “I know, I know,” he said before I could comment. “Your car, your music.”
I started the engine and pulled out onto the street. “Though I’m not sure why when you’re in ‘my‘ car, we still have to listen to ‘your‘ music,” he continued, his tone teasing.
“You have all the time in your car without me to listen to your music,” I explained reasonably.
“Oh, is this ‘Daniella logic’?”
“Everything I say is logical,” I shot back.
Isaac laughed, and we headed toward Murphy’s in comfortable silence, the radio filling the space between us with classic rock. As usual, the parking lot was packed when we arrived, and I resorted to street parking two blocks away. Inside, the pub was shoulder-to-shoulder with the Saturday night crowd, groups celebrating, couples on dates, regulars claiming their favorite stools at the bar.
We stood at the bar waiting for a table, and I couldn’t help but notice the overly friendly waitress from the other night tending bar. She saw us approach and her expression soured immediately when she recognized me. She seemed to purposely overlook taking our order, attending to everyone around us while pretending we didn’t exist.
Fortunately, Shelly, one of the other bartenders, saw what was happening and marched over to serve us. I loved Shelly. She was no-nonsense and sharp as a whip, the kind of person who saw through everyone’s bullshit instantly and had no patience for games.
She didn’t even need to ask what we wanted. Just poured two Stellas and popped them in front of us with a knowing look. The younger bartender looked a little embarrassed at being so obviously called out, but I didn’t really care. She wasn’t on the top of my list of things or people I needed to consider.
“This is becoming our thing to do Saturday nights now, on top of our regular Mondays,” Isaac pointed out, taking a long drink of his beer.
“It is,” I agreed. Then the thought struck me fully, and I felt a small pang in my chest. “I might be at a loss as to what to do with myself once these Saturdays wrap up.”
The words came out like a joke, but as soon as I said them, I realized the truth in them. I would actually be at a loss. These Saturdays, the craft days, the time with the kids, the easy companionship with Isaac and Marcy and the other volunteers, had become something I looked forward to. Something that gave my weeks structure and meaning.
After a moment, I continued, “I might look into helping out with another charity when this wraps up. I’m really enjoying this.”
“So am I,” Isaac said, his expression thoughtful. “It’s been not only the best distraction but genuinely fun. I love seeing kids happy and excited, especially at Christmas. I can tell that what we’re doing is having a very positive impact on these kids, and hopefully their families as a whole.”
He paused, swirling the beer in his glass. “You know, something I’ve always wanted to do is volunteer at a shelter. Dog walking and playing with them.” He looked at me hopefully. “Want to do that with me? You have to promise to stop me from adopting all the dogs, though. I know that’s going to be the hardest part of it.”
“I’ve thought about that too,” I said. The idea appealed to me immediately; spending time with animals, doing something good, having another regular activity with Isaac. “After the holidays, there can be quite a need at shelters. People give animals as gifts, and those people, the ones who see animals as gifts, tend to be the same ones who have no problem getting rid of them when they realize animals are work. They think of them as things, oblivious to animals having feelings. It’s really quite sad.”
Perhaps I’d gone a bit too depressing with that observation. Isaac looked like he might cry.
“That’s horrible,” he said quietly. “And now I want to go and adopt all the dogs there.”
Fortunately, his distress was interrupted by Shelly appearing to tell us a table had just opened up. I knew what I wanted already, the Thai curry was calling my name, and ordered as soon as we sat down.
Isaac was on the same wavelength. “Make that two,” he told Shelly.
The hustle and bustle of the pub created a kind of energizing atmosphere. All the conversations mulled together to become white noise punctuated by bursts of laughter. Christmas music played faintly under it all; not intrusive, just present, adding to the festive mood. I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
I looked at Isaac for a moment, really looked at him. At the way the dim pub lighting caught in his hair, the easy smile on his face, the comfortable way he occupied space across from me. And I found myself wondering: was I also with the person I was supposed to be with?
The thought came unbidden, startling in its clarity. I looked away quickly, took a drink of my beer, and tried to shake off the feeling. But it lingered, warm and persistent, for the rest of the evening.
Eventually I dozed off, and I was groggy when my alarm went off. When it occurred to me what day it was, I immediately perked up. I brewed the coffee and hopped in the shower. I wasn’t able to load the car the night before because of the glass jars, so I had to get it loaded in the morning. Every extra task seemed to take forever. I couldn’t wait to arrive at the Legion.
When I arrived, there were already other volunteers there. A nice gentleman named Bruce helped me carry in my supplies. The tables already had the plastic Christmas cloths on them. Isaac arrived with another coffee for me, which I was very grateful for. I got the craft supplies organized, and Isaac was handling the soup and cookie recipe tables. I had found funnels from the dollar store, as well as a wide variety of beads and little decorations. I was thrilled when I surveyed the tables, they looked so bright and colorful.
Someone turned on the Christmas music, and the warm and fuzzies hit. I couldn’t decide if I should just let go of my whole anti-Christmas thing, especially as I stood there in all the Christmas glory of the day, or if I should stay grounded. Enjoy the day for what it is and just move on.
Before I could decide, the doors burst open and the children began flooding in.
“Daniella! Daniella!” Timmy came running towards me. He was giddy with excitement.
“Hey, buddy! What’s up?”
“I did it! I did what you said!”
“You did?” I knelt down to his level. “Tell me what happened.”
“I got some of my old toys, ones I don’t play with anymore, and I put them in a box in my room. And I told my sister she could only play with those toys when she came in. And you know what?”
“What?” I asked.
“I came home one day, and she was in my room, but she wasn’t wrecking anything! She was just playing with the toys I gave her. So I sat down and played with her.” His face was glowing. “We had a really good time. It was actually fun.”
My throat tightened with emotion. “Timmy, that’s amazing. I’m so proud of you.”
“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “It was way better than being mad at her all the time.”
He ran off to join the other kids, and I stood there, watching him go, feeling something fill up in my chest. Something that felt an awful lot like hope.
I took a moment to pause and let it sink in, instead of fighting it off the way I’d been doing for months. Yes, I was going against my no-Christmas rule. Again. But that rule had been born from a need to protect my heart from hurt, to build walls high enough that disappointment couldn’t scale them.
Letting Christmas in now, though? It felt different. It felt good for me. Good for my heart. Standing there in that community hall, surrounded by excited children and the cheerful chaos of craft supplies, I realized something fundamental: just because I’d had my feelings hurt in years past didn’t mean I should diminish what Christmas could be for others. And maybe, just maybe, the best way I could make sure these families truly enjoyed this holiday was to embrace the joy in it myself. Not the performative joy I’d been faking for years. The real thing.
I looked over and found Isaac staring at me from across the room. There was something knowing in his expression, a slight smile playing at his lips. I suspected he could see it; that shift happening inside me, the walls coming down, the spirit of the season seeping back in.
I smiled back, feeling a little coy, a little caught, and nodded toward his tables where a crowd of eager children was gathering. “Get back to work,” I mouthed. He grinned and gave me a mock salute before turning his attention to the kids clustered around him, all bouncing with anticipation.
My own tables were similarly surrounded. Small faces looked up at me expectantly, hands already reaching for supplies before I’d even explained the projects.
“Okay, okay,” I laughed, moving into position. “Let me show you how these work first, and then you can go crazy. Deal?” A chorus of “Deal!” echoed back at me.
I walked them through the various crafts, pinecone Christmas trees with beads and glitter, mason jar snow globes, handprint reindeer cards. Some required drying time for glue or paint, so we set up a rotation system. Kids would start one project, move to another table while the first dried, then circle back to complete it. The system worked beautifully, creating a constant flow of excited children moving through the space like a well-choreographed dance.
Suzie appeared at my elbow again, her focus immediately drawn to the pinecone trees. She settled into her chair with the concentration of a master craftsman, carefully selecting each bead, positioning every bit of glitter with precision. After watching her complete her third tree, I couldn’t help but comment. “Looks like you’re building a Christmas forest.”
Suzie giggled, the sound pure and unselfconscious. “Yes! I love Christmas trees. Last year we got a real one and it was the best.” She lifted one of the pinecones to her nose and inhaled deeply. “These pinecones smell like that tree. The smell was the best part. That was our best Christmas tree ever.”
Something in my chest tightened at the simple joy in her voice, the way she treasured that memory. “Who are you making all these trees for?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“Everyone!” Suzie exclaimed, her smile radiant.
“Oh my goodness,” I chuckled. “You’ll definitely need to make a lot if you’re giving them to everyone.”
“I sure do.” Her expression turned serious, worried. “I just hope I have enough time to get them all done.”
I reached over and gently touched her shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you have all the time you need.”
She looked up at me, and the smile she gave me was so beautiful, so full of trust and gratitude, that I had to blink back sudden tears. She returned to her work, humming along with the Christmas music that continued to play through the speakers. And I found myself humming too. Then singing softly. Then singing at full volume, completely unselfconscious about it.
Marcy noticed, of course. She materialized beside me, grinning like she’d won the lottery. “Looks like we found our choir leader for next weekend.”
I could feel my face flush hot with the anticipation of embarrassment. “Oh no. You won’t get me doing that.”
“You have a beautiful voice and the kids love you.” Marcy pressed. “You’re perfect for the job.”
“No, Marcy.” I made my voice firm, put steel in my spine. “I’m happy to help, but I am not comfortable being in charge of singing next weekend.”
Something in my body language, the set of my shoulders, perhaps, or the look in my eyes, must have convinced her. She conceded with a small nod. “Okay, okay. I’ll just be happy to have you there to help.”
“That I can do,” I promised.
And immediately, my wheels started turning. If I wasn’t going to lead the singing, I could still contribute in other ways. Little music books for the kids, maybe? Something with all the Christmas classics printed out so they could follow along. Lyrics to “Jingle Bells” and “Rudolph” and “Silent Night.”
I was already making a mental list of songs to include, mentally designing the little booklets, when a crash of shattering glass snapped me back to reality. Or rather, not glass. A jar of glitter.
One of the boys had been struggling to open it, and I’d been so lost in my planning that I’d failed to notice until it was too late. The lid had come off with such force that the jar flew from his hands, and now there was a galaxy of silver sparkle covering approximately three square feet of floor, two chairs, and four children.
“Oh no,” the boy whispered, his eyes going wide with horror.
“It’s okay,” I said quickly, even as I surveyed the damage and thought, ‘We’ll all be finding random sparkles on us for weeks now.‘ That stuff had a supernatural tendency to spread and persist long after any reasonable cleaning effort. “These things happen. Let’s just get it cleaned up.”
By the time we’d swept and vacuumed and wiped down every glitter-contaminated surface, and person, I was fairly certain I was now at least thirty percent glitter by body weight. There was sparkle in my hair, under my fingernails, somehow inside my shoe. But the day had been so much fun. There was glue, glitter, and paint on all of us by the end, evidence of hours of creative chaos and joy.
As we were packing up supplies, Isaac approached with something hidden behind his back and a theatrical expression on his face.
“For you, Miss Humbug,” he proclaimed, presenting me with one of the mason jars from the cookie recipe project. He’d decorated it beautifully, with a ribbon tied around the lid and a handwritten tag that read “For Daniella, from your friend in Christmas.”
I felt something warm bloom in my chest. “Good work, Christmas Boy!” I said, taking the gift.
“Of course,” he continued, his expression turning mischievous, “your acceptance of this means you agree to my terms.”
“Terms?” I raised an eyebrow. “What terms?”
“You agree to make these cookies and share them with me.” His face had a childlike quality to it, all pride and playfulness.
“Oh really?” I tried to sound skeptical, but I was already planning when I’d make them. “I don’t know if it’s fair to add terms ‘after‘ I’ve already taken the gift.”
“I’m comfortable with what I did,” Isaac laughed. Then he bumped my shoulder with his. “So how about it? Shall we bake some cookies tomorrow?”
The easy camaraderie between us, the simple pleasure of his company, the prospect of a lazy Sunday baking cookies, it all sounded perfect. “You’re in luck. I am free tomorrow. I think I can be persuaded into making cookies, especially if you’re bringing wine when you come.”
“Deal! What wine goes best with cookies?” He looked genuinely puzzled.
“They all do,” I stated matter-of-factly.
Isaac laughed. “I suppose you’re right.”
As we were finishing the cleanup, wrestling folding tables back into storage, sweeping the last of the glitter, collecting stray craft supplies… my phone buzzed.
A text from James: ‘Sorry mom, I know I said I’d call today, but I’m headed out with Lin, I won’t be able to call. I’ll try to call tomorrow.‘
It felt like someone had dimmed the lights in the room. All the warmth and joy from the day seemed to drain away, replaced by that familiar hollow ache. I was missing him. Missing all of them. My children, scattered across different cities, living their lives, so busy that even phone calls had become difficult to coordinate.
I must have let my expression slip, because Marcy noticed immediately. She came over, her face creased with concern. “You okay?”
At first I was reluctant to share, I didn’t want to dampen the day, didn’t want to bring my personal sadness into this space we’d created for others. But eventually I gave her a brief accounting of what I was feeling. The distance from my children. The cancelled calls. The way Christmas had become something to negotiate rather than something to celebrate together. She listened without interrupting, and when I finished, her eyes were soft with understanding.
“I know how hard this holiday can be, especially when your kids are hitting adulthood,” she said quietly. “I went through it. I guess I still go through it every year.” She paused, seeming to consider her words carefully. “That’s part of why I do this work every year. I get as much out of it as the kids do. That’s the thing about doing good for others, it gives to them and to you.”
She reached out and hugged me, and I hugged her back with genuine appreciation. I needed that hug. Needed the reminder that I wasn’t alone in this particular grief.
“I thought you might need something like this, this year,” Marcy continued. “I could tell you were carrying something heavy. I know I pushed a bit hard to get you involved…” She smiled ruefully. “But that’s how I love.”
“You were right,” I said softly. “I needed this.”
As I was packing up my car following the grueling cleanup of the hall, Isaac carried the last box out to me.
“Murphy’s?” he asked casually. “Stella?”
Going to Murphy’s for a pint after these events was becoming a ritual between us, one I found myself looking forward to. My first instinct was to say no; I was tired, emotionally raw from James’s text, and part of me just wanted to go home and wallow. But I reconsidered. It was always good to get out. And Isaac ’s company had a way of making everything feel lighter.
“Sure,” I said. “Let me drop this stuff at home first, and I’ll meet you there.”
“I’ll just ride with you,” he said, already climbing into my passenger seat. “Save us both the hassle.”
Without instruction, he reached over and tuned my radio to my preferred station. “I know, I know,” he said before I could comment. “Your car, your music.”
I started the engine and pulled out onto the street. “Though I’m not sure why when you’re in ‘my‘ car, we still have to listen to ‘your‘ music,” he continued, his tone teasing.
“You have all the time in your car without me to listen to your music,” I explained reasonably.
“Oh, is this ‘Daniella logic’?”
“Everything I say is logical,” I shot back.
Isaac laughed, and we headed toward Murphy’s in comfortable silence, the radio filling the space between us with classic rock. As usual, the parking lot was packed when we arrived, and I resorted to street parking two blocks away. Inside, the pub was shoulder-to-shoulder with the Saturday night crowd, groups celebrating, couples on dates, regulars claiming their favorite stools at the bar.
We stood at the bar waiting for a table, and I couldn’t help but notice the overly friendly waitress from the other night tending bar. She saw us approach and her expression soured immediately when she recognized me. She seemed to purposely overlook taking our order, attending to everyone around us while pretending we didn’t exist.
Fortunately, Shelly, one of the other bartenders, saw what was happening and marched over to serve us. I loved Shelly. She was no-nonsense and sharp as a whip, the kind of person who saw through everyone’s bullshit instantly and had no patience for games.
She didn’t even need to ask what we wanted. Just poured two Stellas and popped them in front of us with a knowing look. The younger bartender looked a little embarrassed at being so obviously called out, but I didn’t really care. She wasn’t on the top of my list of things or people I needed to consider.
“This is becoming our thing to do Saturday nights now, on top of our regular Mondays,” Isaac pointed out, taking a long drink of his beer.
“It is,” I agreed. Then the thought struck me fully, and I felt a small pang in my chest. “I might be at a loss as to what to do with myself once these Saturdays wrap up.”
The words came out like a joke, but as soon as I said them, I realized the truth in them. I would actually be at a loss. These Saturdays, the craft days, the time with the kids, the easy companionship with Isaac and Marcy and the other volunteers, had become something I looked forward to. Something that gave my weeks structure and meaning.
After a moment, I continued, “I might look into helping out with another charity when this wraps up. I’m really enjoying this.”
“So am I,” Isaac said, his expression thoughtful. “It’s been not only the best distraction but genuinely fun. I love seeing kids happy and excited, especially at Christmas. I can tell that what we’re doing is having a very positive impact on these kids, and hopefully their families as a whole.”
He paused, swirling the beer in his glass. “You know, something I’ve always wanted to do is volunteer at a shelter. Dog walking and playing with them.” He looked at me hopefully. “Want to do that with me? You have to promise to stop me from adopting all the dogs, though. I know that’s going to be the hardest part of it.”
“I’ve thought about that too,” I said. The idea appealed to me immediately; spending time with animals, doing something good, having another regular activity with Isaac. “After the holidays, there can be quite a need at shelters. People give animals as gifts, and those people, the ones who see animals as gifts, tend to be the same ones who have no problem getting rid of them when they realize animals are work. They think of them as things, oblivious to animals having feelings. It’s really quite sad.”
Perhaps I’d gone a bit too depressing with that observation. Isaac looked like he might cry.
“That’s horrible,” he said quietly. “And now I want to go and adopt all the dogs there.”
Fortunately, his distress was interrupted by Shelly appearing to tell us a table had just opened up. I knew what I wanted already, the Thai curry was calling my name, and ordered as soon as we sat down.
Isaac was on the same wavelength. “Make that two,” he told Shelly.
The hustle and bustle of the pub created a kind of energizing atmosphere. All the conversations mulled together to become white noise punctuated by bursts of laughter. Christmas music played faintly under it all; not intrusive, just present, adding to the festive mood. I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
I looked at Isaac for a moment, really looked at him. At the way the dim pub lighting caught in his hair, the easy smile on his face, the comfortable way he occupied space across from me. And I found myself wondering: was I also with the person I was supposed to be with?
The thought came unbidden, startling in its clarity. I looked away quickly, took a drink of my beer, and tried to shake off the feeling. But it lingered, warm and persistent, for the rest of the evening.