CHAPTER SIX
The Perfect Sunday


Sunday morning, I was woken by my doorbell. I cracked one eye open and looked at my clock: 8:00 AM.
(Eight o’clock. On a Sunday.)
I let out a groan and flopped back into my pillow, pulling it over my head as if that might make the doorbell and whoever was ringing it cease to exist. The doorbell rang again, more insistently this time.
I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, squinting at the bright screen. There was a message from half an hour earlier that I’d apparently slept through. Isaac : ‘On my way! Stopping to grab us coffee.‘
“Ugh,” I let out, and flopped back into my pillow. I’d completely forgotten he was a morning person. A cheerful, energetic, fully-functional-before-noon morning person. I was decidedly not one of those.
The doorbell rang a third time, and I finally dragged myself out of bed, stumbling down the stairs in my oversized sleep shirt and fuzzy socks, my hair undoubtedly looking like I’d been electrocuted. When I opened the door, Isaac took one look at me and immediately burst out laughing.
“Wow! You look like you were just in a heavy sleep.”
“I was,” I barked, my voice still rough with sleep. I held out my hand. “Coffee.”
Full sentences could wait until I’d had caffeine. He handed me my coffee. (Bless him, he’d remembered exactly how I liked it.) And then headed straight into the kitchen like he owned the place. I watched him through half-closed eyes as he immediately started laying out ingredients, pulling mixing bowls from cupboards he shouldn’t have known about, moving with purposeful efficiency. It was too much. Way too much for this ungodly hour.
“No,” I said, shuffling over to place a hand on his arm. “Sit down a minute. I can’t bake yet. Give me a chance to wake up.”
He looked surprised, then sheepish. “I forget how much you like your sleep. I honestly never sleep all that much.” He studied my face, taking in my bleary eyes and general dishevelment. “How about I whip up a little breakfast for you? That will give you a chance to wake up properly.”
The offer sounded like heaven. I nodded gratefully and curled up in my armchair by the window, pulling an afghan over my legs and cradling my coffee like it was precious cargo.
From my cozy nest, I watched Isaac work in my kitchen. He moved with surprising confidence, finding pans and utensils, cracking eggs one-handed, humming along with the radio he’d turned on low. There was something deeply pleasant about watching someone else take care of things, about being looked after.
About halfway through my coffee, I finally felt motivated enough to go upstairs and make myself presentable. The first dose of reality came when I looked in the mirror: hair sticking up in multiple directions, mascara smudged under one eye, pillow creases on my cheek.
“Good God,” I muttered to my reflection. I was grateful Isaac was such a good friend and hadn’t judged me too harshly for my appearance. Or at least, he’d been kind enough to limit his judgment to gentle teasing.
I took a quick shower, brushed my teeth, threw on jeans and a soft sweater, and ran a brush through my hair until it looked like it belonged to a functioning human being.
By the time I came back downstairs, he’d set the table for both of us, cloth napkins and everything, and the kitchen smelled like heaven. Bacon, eggs, buttered toast. Simple but perfect.
“This looks amazing,” I said, sliding into my seat. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” he said, and seemed to mean it.
We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, both of us hungry. Then Isaac spoke, his tone casual but carrying something underneath I couldn’t quite identify.
“Sebastian called last night.”
Sebastian was Isaac ’s son, twenty-three, working in Toronto, usually too busy to visit as often as Isaac would like.
“Oh, that’s nice,” I said. “How is he? When will he be coming to see you for the holiday?”
“We sorted that out last night. Looks like he’ll come on the 22nd for a night.” Isaac ’s expression was complicated, pleased but also slightly sad. “Coming after Christmas has passed just wouldn’t feel like Christmas.”
I sighed, and something heavy settled in my chest. He was right. I knew my kids would likely not come until after Christmas, and I felt that familiar dimming sensation again, the lights going out, the joy draining away.
Isaac picked up on it immediately. “I’m guessing you haven’t sorted that out with yours yet?”
“No,” I admitted, pushing my eggs around my plate. “I’ve asked a couple of times on our group chat and they all just keep replying that they’ll let me know. There’s only so many times you can ask before you feel like you’re being pushy or needy.”
“Have you tried just telling them what day you’re celebrating? Making them work around a plan instead of trying to accommodate everyone’s schedule?”
“I have,” I said, and I could hear the weariness in my own voice. “I’ve even done that well in advance so they can book off work or coordinate with others. The end result there was two Christmases where I didn’t have all of them together.” I set down my fork, suddenly not hungry anymore. “It’s a bit of a no-win situation. Honestly, I’m getting pretty sad just talking about it. Can we change the subject?”
“Absolutely,” Isaac said immediately. He was quiet for a beat, and then: “So spring or summer for our wedding?”
I choked on my coffee. Actually choked, the hot liquid went down the wrong pipe, and I coughed and sputtered, eyes watering, while Isaac watched with an expression of mingled amusement and concern.
“Wow,” I managed once I could breathe again. My nose burned from where coffee had gone up it. “You really know how to segue.”
Isaac laughed, clearly pleased with himself.
“You know,” I continued, trying to regain some composure, “you can’t talk marriage to a girl when you don’t even have a ring. A lady needs to know what she’s getting into.”
“Who says I don’t have a ring?”
The words hung in the air like a bomb.
I stared at him, trying to read his expression, trying to determine if he was joking or serious or somewhere in between. My heart was doing strange things in my chest; fluttering, racing, stopping altogether.
“Oh God, Isaac ,” I finally said. “Are you telling me you’ve bought me a ring?”
“Relax. I’m not on my knee.” His smile was mysterious, playful, impossible to interpret. “I’m just saying, you never know what I have up my sleeve.”
I decided to leave it alone. This was not a conversation for this morning, not when I’d barely woken up, not when my emotions about my children were so close to the surface, not when I hadn’t had nearly enough coffee to deal with whatever this was.
After we’d finished breakfast and cleared the dishes, we began getting ready to bake. Isaac looked around the kitchen, then the living room, his expression puzzled.
“Where’s your tree? You don’t even have any decorations up.”
“I do,” I replied, somewhat defensively.
He looked again, more carefully this time. “No, you don’t.”
I walked upstairs to my bedroom and retrieved the small ceramic cottage from my nightstand; a miniature house covered in sculpted snow, with tiny windows that glowed yellow when you put a tea light inside. I’d had it for years, a gift from my mother.
I came back downstairs and placed it on the kitchen island. “There.”
Isaac stared at it. “What’s that supposed to be?”
“My Christmas.”
“What do you mean, ‘your Christmas’? That’s one decoration.”
“This little cottage always reminds me of what Christmas is,” I explained, running my finger along its snowy roof. “A cozy little house, covered in snow. You can envision inside it’s toasty warm from a wood fire, and that there’s a family, all together, eating dinner, singing songs, opening gifts. This is what I think of when I think of Christmas.”
Isaac was quiet for a moment, processing. When he spoke, his voice was careful, like he was trying to understand something foreign. “So you only put out one Christmas decoration this year because that one decoration represents everything you think of when you think of Christmas?”
I laughed at how absurd it sounded when he said it like that. “I hadn’t really looked at it like that, but yes. I really had intended to skip Christmas entirely this year, so I wasn’t going to decorate at all. But I came across this and… well, I wanted this one out.”
More silence.
“Well, where did you have it?” Isaac asked.
“On my bedside table.”
“So let me get this straight.” He was clearly struggling with the concept. “Only one Christmas decoration, and you put it in your bedroom?”
I laughed again, partially because this was getting uncomfortable and partially because I could see how it seemed more than a bit absurd. “Yes. It’s something nice to see before I go to bed and when I first wake up.”
Isaac shook his head a little, clearly deciding this was a battle not worth fighting. He turned his attention to the ingredients, started transferring them from the decorative jar into a mixing bowl, and we let the subject of Christmas decorations drop.
The cookies came together easily; we made a double batch, filling the kitchen with the warm scent of vanilla and brown sugar. Once they were on the baking sheet, I set the timer and popped them into the oven. We settled into the living room, and Isaac immediately grabbed the remote, scanning through streaming services for a Christmas movie. He landed on A Christmas Story, one of my all-time favorites.
“Good choice,” I said, curling up on the opposite end of the couch.
“I aim to please,” he replied.
We fell into easy conversation about our favorite holiday movies. I was surprised and delighted to learn he’d seen the old Rankin/Bass classic ’Twas the Night Before Christmas, the one with the clockmaker mice.
“That was one of my favorites too!” I exclaimed. “Actually, you know what? We had that whole movie on vinyl when I was a kid.”
Isaac looked confused. “What do you mean, on vinyl?”
“There was a record that was the whole audio of the movie. I think it might have been meant to go with a book, I can’t be sure. But we used to play it over and over when we were kids.” The memory made me smile. “It was one of those Disney records. I had another one I loved called Pecos Bill.”
“That’s really interesting,” Isaac said. “I never had a book on vinyl. Did you manage to keep a copy of it?”
“No,” I said with regret. “I’ve looked into trying to buy the Pecos Bill one online, but it hadn’t occurred to me before to look for ’Twas the Night Before Christmas. I might have to see if I can find a copy.”
We settled in to watch the movie in companionable silence. When the timer went off, I retrieved the cookies from the oven and set them on a cooling rack, then returned to my spot on the couch.
During the scene where Ralphie’s parents are drinking wine on Christmas morning, Isaac chimed in, “Oh yeah, I did bring wine, as instructed.” He raised an eyebrow, testing the waters.
It wasn’t quite eleven in the morning, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about wine at this time of day. When I’d made the suggestion yesterday, I’d pictured it being more of an afternoon thing; casual, relaxed, but not quite so… premature. But then again, why not? What was the point of being an adult if you couldn’t occasionally do ridiculous things like drink wine and eat cookies before noon on a Sunday?
“You know what,” I finally said, “I’m game if you are. Let’s veg out, watching movies and having wine and cookies.”
Isaac laughed and immediately jumped up to collect the goods. “Okay, you pick the next movie,” he instructed.
The cookies had turned out beautifully; crisp on the edges, chewy in the middle, exactly right. And by the third movie (Elf, which we’d both seen a dozen times but never got old), we were sitting together on the couch, working on bottle number two of a very decent Cabernet.
Sitting there for hours, indulging in wine and cookies like teenagers whose parents were out of town, felt both wonderfully wrong and like the absolute perfect way to spend the day. There was something luxurious about it, the complete absence of responsibility, the simple pleasure of good company and comfort food.
We’d moved on to Love Actually when I became aware that Isaac was looking at me. Not at the screen, at me. I turned to meet his gaze, and the air between us suddenly felt charged with something electric. We stared at each other, and I could feel the chemistry building, crackling like static before a storm.
Was it the emotional scene playing out on screen? The wine warming my blood? Our real feelings finally bubbling to the surface? A combination of it all?
Isaac reached up and gently pushed my hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my cheek. The gesture was so tender, so full of unspoken things, that I forgot to breathe.
The air was charged with building electricity.
Isaac leaned in and kissed me.
It was like fireworks went off inside me. Not the nervous flutter of a first kiss, something bigger, more significant. Like something that had been waiting to happen finally had. I had butterflies, my stomach doing loops, completely swept up in the moment. And then, abruptly, my phone rang. The sound shattered the moment like glass. Reality came crashing back, and I pulled away, jumping up to grab my phone from where I’d left it on the coffee table. James’s name lit up the screen.
I stared at it, frozen, not sure what to do. And then everything hit me at once; the cookies, the wine, the kiss, the confusion, the guilt, the fear, all of it crashing together in a nauseating wave. I didn’t feel well. At all.
“You okay, Daniella?” Isaac asked, his voice laced with concern. “You look a little green. I hope that’s not from the kiss.”
I placed my hand on the arm of the chair to steady myself, took a deep breath to see if the feeling would pass. It didn’t. If anything, it got worse.
“I don’t feel very good,” I managed to say. “I think wine and cookies in the morning was a bad idea.”
Isaac stood and gently took my arm. “Here, let me help you.”
“No, that’s okay,” I said, pulling away with more force than I’d intended. “Just give me a minute.”
I made my way to my ensuite bathroom, closing both my bedroom door and the bathroom door behind me with emphatic clicks. I sat on the floor. The cold tile felt nice, so I laid down fully, pressing my hot cheek against the cool surface. It felt like heaven for about ten seconds. And then everything changed. I sat up quickly and was sick.
(How stupid to have wine and cookies at eleven in the morning, like I’m twenty years old), I thought bitterly as I knelt in front of the toilet.
The wave swept over me again and I was sick one more time. But once that happened, I actually felt ten times better, like my body had purged not just the wine but all the confusion and emotion that had been churning inside me. I sat for another moment to make sure it was truly over. When I was confident I wasn’t going to be sick again, I cleaned myself up and brushed my teeth thoroughly, trying to erase any evidence of what had just happened.
When I came back downstairs, Isaac had paused the movie and was sitting on the edge of the couch, his body tense with worry. He stood up as soon as he saw me.
“Are you okay?” His voice was heavy with concern.
“Believe it or not, I feel great now.” I laughed at the absurdity of it.
Isaac ’s expression turned to pure shock. “Really?!”
“I mean, I don’t want any more wine… or cookies,” I admitted. “But yeah, I feel fine.”
I came back down and deliberately sat in the armchair rather than returning to my spot beside him on the couch. I wasn’t sure sitting together was a good idea right now; there was too much unspoken between us, too many questions I wasn’t ready to answer. I could tell he wasn’t sure what to say or do. He leaned back into the couch and was quiet, his expression troubled. So I picked up the remote and turned the movie back on, as if we could just pretend the last fifteen minutes hadn’t happened. I couldn’t help but glance over at him a few times. He wasn’t really watching the movie. I could practically see the wheels turning in his head, trying to figure out how to approach what had just happened between us.
I picked up my phone. “Oh, I better message James back and let him know I’ll call him this evening.”
Isaac just sort of nodded, still lost in his own thoughts.
We finished the movie in silence, not the comfortable silence we’d shared earlier, but something heavier, weighted with all the things we weren’t saying. When it ended, Isaac stood up abruptly. “I should get going.”
I felt conflicted about this, part of me wanted him to stay, wanted to talk about what had happened, wanted to acknowledge the kiss. But another part of me, the part that was scared and confused, thought maybe it was better if he left.
“We had a fair bit of wine,” I said instead. “How about we order something hearty to eat and watch another movie? Neither of us has anything we need to get done today. It’s probably best not to drive yet.”
Isaac reluctantly agreed, and I grabbed my phone to order delivery. He excused himself to the bathroom while I placed the order, and I used the time to clean up the cookie mess in the kitchen, needing something to do with my hands.
When he came back out, he grabbed a dish towel without being asked and began drying the dishes I’d washed. We worked side by side, but the silence between us was awkward, uncomfortable. I tried to lighten the mood by bumping my hip into him in a playful way, like I had the day before at the craft event. He didn’t respond. Didn’t even acknowledge it. I didn’t push it.
By the time we’d finished cleaning up, the food arrived. I laid it out on the coffee table and sat on the couch, trying to demonstrate that I wasn’t avoiding him. Isaac sat in the armchair.
‘Ugh,’ I thought to myself. ‘I guess this is going to be awkward.’
“Want to pick a movie?” I asked.
“I can’t think of one,” he said flatly. “You choose.”
I scrolled through options and landed on It’s a Wonderful Life. Once it started, I realized it might not have been the right choice; too emotional, too much about love and connection and the meaning of life. We ate our dinner in silence, and the food sat heavy in my stomach.
When James Stewart grabs Donna Reed in that pivotal scene; yelling at her, then kissing her with desperate passion. Isaac stirred in his seat, shifting uncomfortably.
(Was this the level of frustration he was feeling with me?) I wondered.
By the time George Bailey and Clarence were at the bar, Isaac stood up. “I need to get home.”
“No, stay,” I said, and I heard the pleading in my voice. “Please. Finish the movie, Isaac. Come sit here on the couch.”
He stood there for a long moment, clearly warring with himself. Then he came and sat beside me. But he was stiff, his body language closed off, and I found it difficult to get comfortable. The space between us, barely six inches, felt like a canyon. When the movie ended, he stood again. “I’m leaving.” This time, I didn’t stop him.
As he got his shoes on at the door, I came to say goodbye. He gave me a brief, awkward hug; nothing like the easy embraces we’d shared before. He was halfway out the door when he turned back.
“I don’t know what that kiss meant to you,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. “But it means something to me. I hope you think about what you want.”
Before I could respond, before I could even process what he’d said, he turned toward his car and walked away. I shut the door and time seemed to pause.
The house was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of a car driving past. I stood there with my hand on the door, my forehead pressed against the cool wood, and acknowledged the truth I’d been avoiding all day: I really did need to think about what I wanted.















CHAPTER SEVEN
Songs and Silence


Monday at work, I found myself happily distracted by the upcoming event for the kids on Saturday. I’d been cataloguing Christmas songs all morning, pulling together lyrics, playing out scenes in my head of children holding their little songbooks and singing in unison like some impromptu church choir.
The memory surfaced without prompting: my mother had once put together a book just like this. She’d included it as an insert in the local paper; a promotion for her business, but done so tastefully that it didn’t feel like advertising. Just a beautiful little booklet of Christmas carols, a gift to the community. When my copy had arrived tucked into our newspaper, I’d treasured it for years, the pages growing soft and worn from use.
Unfortunately, it had disappeared somewhere along the lines; lost in one of many moves, perhaps, or accidentally thrown away in a cleaning purge. The loss still made me a little sad when I thought about it. But doing something like this now felt like a recognition of what she’d done, a continuation of that generous spirit. A way of honoring her memory while creating something meaningful for these children.
I opened a fresh document and began typing out my list:
Jingle BellsDeck the HallsWe Wish You a Merry ChristmasRudolph the Red-Nosed ReindeerSanta Claus Is Coming to TownSilent NightJoy to the WorldO Come All Ye FaithfulThe First NoelFrosty the SnowmanLet It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!

As I scrolled through websites, pulling lyrics, reading through verses I’d sung a thousand times, my head flooded with images of myself as a child. Singing these songs in elementary school assemblies, standing in church pews beside my mother, even in the car headed to family gatherings, everyone joining in on “Jingle Bells” with varying degrees of enthusiasm and talent.
It was as if I could place myself back into some of those moments, ever so briefly. I could feel the cold of the car window against my cheek, the scratchy fabric of my Sunday dress sticking to my tights, the distinctive scent of my mother’s perfume, White Shoulders, she’d worn it for years. How wonderful it is that songs can do this, can transport us back to these happy moments, even for just a heartbeat. Our memories are like time machines, waiting to be activated by the right trigger.
I wasn’t sure where things stood with Isaac , and as the day drew close to its end, that uncertainty gnawed at me. ‘Were we getting together this evening for our usual Monday night?‘ I wondered. After the awkwardness of Sunday, after that kiss and all the unspoken things between us, I didn’t know what to expect.
Testing the water, I sent him a text: ‘Hey, I put together a list of songs to make a book of for the kids for Saturday. I’ll show you this evening.’ Then I waited. I watched the screen, saw the three dots appear indicating he was typing. Then they stopped. He started again. Stopped again.
When the dots completely disappeared and no message came, my heart broke a little. I packed up my things with a heaviness in my chest, gathering my purse, my coat, shutting down my computer with mechanical movements. ‘I guess I need to think of something to make for dinner tonight,‘ I thought as I headed for my car.
The parking lot was nearly empty at this hour, the December darkness settling in early. I was fumbling with my keys when my phone buzzed.
Isaac : ‘Meet you there.’
The message was more succinct than he usually responded; no jokes, no emojis, just the facts. But still, I was very happy. Relief flooded through me, warm and immediate. I didn’t know how I could bear coldness between us.
That thought stopped me in my tracks, one hand on my car door handle. If the thought of Isaac being distant was this troubling, it was because I needed his closeness. Needed it in a way that went beyond simple friendship.
This stirred up fears of losing his friendship entirely, of ruining what we had by wanting more. But this was something Isaac had asked me about before: was fear holding me back from getting everything I ever wanted?
I’d never considered myself someone who let fear dictate their life. I’d survived a painful divorce, raised four children largely on my own, built a career, maintained my independence. I thought of myself as brave, resilient, pragmatic. But maybe I wasn’t paying attention. Maybe fear had taken root so quietly that I hadn’t noticed it growing, sending tendrils through my decision-making, my relationships, my willingness to be vulnerable. This thought did not sit well with me.
I don’t recall the drive to Murphy’s at all. It was a blur of streetlights and traffic signals, my mind elsewhere, turning over questions I wasn’t ready to answer.
When I arrived, snow had started to fall lightly. The flakes sparkled in the light streaming from the pub’s windows, catching and refracting like tiny diamonds, giving the whole scene a magical quality; something from a snow globe or a greeting card.
Isaac was already there in the parking lot, his car idling. He got out as I pulled into the spot beside him, and I could see his breath misting in the cold air. His smile was a bit forced, careful, like he wasn’t sure what reception he’d get. Mine was not.
He leaned in to hug me. He meant only to give me a little hug, out of habit and courtesy, the kind of brief embrace friends exchange. But I held him tight. For a moment he seemed surprised, his body stiff with uncertainty. Then he conceded and hugged me back properly, his arms coming around me fully, his chin resting briefly on top of my head.
We stood in that moment and everything around us disappeared. The falling snow, the sounds of the parking lot, the cold air, all of it faded. There was just warmth and safety and the steady rhythm of his breathing.
He pulled away first, just a little, and looked down at me.
“Hi,” he said, breaking the quiet.
“Hi,” I replied, with a very genuine smile.
Chuckling softly, Isaac turned toward the pub, his arm still around me, and we walked into Murphy’s together like that; connected, comfortable, something settled between us even if it was unspoken.
Shelly met us as we entered with her usual boisterous greeting: “Well hello, you two!” She grinned knowingly, like she could see something we were still figuring out, and immediately sat us at our usual table by the window.
Again, we both knew what we wanted. No menus needed. This place really was like being at home, without the work and with much more company.
Dinner went well. I carefully skirted any direct talk of our kiss, and Isaac seemed content to let me set the pace. Instead, we shared ideas about Saturday; the caroling route, how to keep the kids organized, whether we’d have enough hot chocolate.
“We should do a practice run at the hall before we go out,” Isaac suggested. “Make sure they know the songs well enough that they won’t freeze up when there’s an actual audience.”
“Good idea. And we should assign some of the older kids to buddy with the younger ones, keep everyone together.”
Isaac loved to sing. He was always trying to get me to do karaoke with him at Murphy’s on their Thursday karaoke nights, a invitation I consistently declined. But I found myself looking forward to Saturday with genuine excitement, images flooding my head of children’s faces lit up with joy, their voices joining together in song, the gratitude of the families we’d visit.
Those Christmas warm and fuzzies were creeping back in, insistent and undeniable. I still couldn’t reconcile the irony of it all. The year I’d finally accepted that Christmas was done for me, the year I’d finally built walls high enough to protect myself from hurt, I found my heart opening up again. Like a flower that decides to bloom in March, improbable but unstoppable.
I was feeling reluctantly optimistic.






CHAPTER EIGHT
When Everything Shifts


Tuesday evening, I sat at my laptop preparing the booklets. I’d finally settled on the perfect font, festive but readable, and was working on the layout when my phone rang. Craig’s name lit up the screen.
“Hey, honey,” I answered, the joy I felt receiving his call, radiating in my voice. He so rarely called these days.
“Hey, Mom.” There was something in his tone; apologetic, uncertain. My stomach tightened. “So, I wanted to talk to you about Christmas.”
Here it comes, I thought.
“Sarah’s family has asked us to go away to the coast for the holidays with their extended family. They’ve rented this big house, and it’s kind of a big deal to them that we’re there, and…” He was talking fast, like he wanted to get it all out before I could respond.
I tried so hard not to let my hurt come through in my voice. Tried to sound understanding, reasonable, like the mature mother I wanted to be. But in the effort, I left too much silence.
“Mom? Are you okay, Mom?”
“I understand,” I finally replied.
It was the best I could do. The words felt like stones in my mouth.
“I’ve talked to everyone,” Craig continued, rushing to fill the silence, “and it’s just so hard to have everyone get the same time free. We can either do separate get-togethers or we can all come early in the new year. January, maybe? After things settle down?”
This felt like an extra blow, a punch I hadn’t seen coming. They had coordinated with each other, my four children had discussed this, made a group decision, and I was the person they’d squeeze in. The afterthought. The obligation to be checked off once the important celebrations were over.
“Just let me know what you all want to do,” I said, my voice carefully neutral. “It’s fine. I’ll make it work.”
Because that was the reality, wasn’t it? I always made it work. I always worked around what everyone else wanted and needed.
As a child, I’d known that was my job; you dealt with what was laid out by the adults. As a mother, I’d still had extended family to navigate, schedules to coordinate. And now, as my kids were becoming adults, I was still in the role of working around everyone else. I guess that wouldn’t be so hard to take if I felt like I was included in a meaningful way in their plans. But I didn’t. I felt like an afterthought. An obligation. A box to be checked: ‘See Mom: done.’
We said our goodbyes, Craig still apologizing, me still reassuring him it was fine, everyone performing their roles. When I hung up, I stared at my laptop screen. The cheerful Christmas carols looked like a mockery now. There were no more warm and fuzzies.
I closed my computer and went to bed, though it was barely eight o’clock. I’d lost my appetite and skipped dinner entirely. I just wanted to end the day. I’d had my fill.
Unfortunately, sleep was difficult. Normally I slept well, one of my few consistent blessings, but tonight I tossed and turned. My mind spun in circles, replaying the conversation with Craig, imagining my children’s group chat (‘What are we going to do about Mom?’), feeling sorry for myself and then angry at myself for feeling sorry for myself.
The sun began to peek through my bedroom windows, pale winter light creeping across the ceiling. I wrestled with the thought of staying in bed or just getting the day started. Logically, I knew I was being ridiculous for letting this hit me so hard. It wasn’t the end of the world. My children were adults with their own lives. This was normal, natural, the way things were supposed to be. But logic often cannot educate emotion. I felt sad. That was just the reality.
After some mental debate, ‘get up, stay in bed, get up, stay in bed’ I finally dragged myself up and climbed into the shower, forgoing making my bed. I was running on reserves and not willing to waste my limited energy on hospital corners and decorative pillows.
At work, I carried out my duties slowly but effectively, like a wind-up toy winding down. I answered emails, attended meetings, processed paperwork. I was present but not really there. YMarcy stopped at my desk mid-morning to chat, her usual bubbly self, ready to discuss some details about Saturday’s event. With a forced smile, I told her I was sorry but I was too busy to chat.
I didn’t think she bought what I said, Marcy was too perceptive for that, but thankfully she gave me space, just touching my shoulder gently before walking away.
I’d skipped breakfast that morning, too sad to bother, so by lunchtime the combination of an empty stomach and too many coffees had caught up with me. I felt shaky, slightly nauseous, my hands trembling when I picked up my pen.
I grabbed a light lunch from the cafeteria, a sandwich I barely tasted, and ate at my desk, opting to leave early. No one questioned it. I had enough goodwill built up that I could take a sick afternoon without raising eyebrows.
That evening, Isaac messaged a couple of times, but I didn’t really feel like chatting. Each notification felt like a weight, one more thing requiring energy I didn’t have. Finally, I sent: ‘Not feeling well. Talk to you later.’
I headed to bed early again, pulling the covers over my head like I was a child hiding from monsters.
Another restless night.
When I did finally sleep, I had a nightmare so vivid it felt real. My ex-husband was brought to my house by people who worked for him; I didn’t recognize them, but in the dream I knew who they were. He was frail, sickly, barely able to stand. They told me I needed to look after him. There was no one else. I was his wife; never mind that we’d been divorced for years, and this was my responsibility.
I looked around at my life in the dream; my peaceful house, my independence, my hard-won freedom, and realized it was over. All of it was over. Now this would be what I did. Taking care of someone who had broken my heart, who had left me to rebuild everything alone. I took him in. I had no choice.
In the dream, it was like someone shut off all the lights on the outside world. There was no more Isaac , no more work, no more charity events. Just four walls, need, and obligation.
That relationship had broken my heart years ago. I’d finally moved on, finally built something good. And this dream brought back all those heavy thoughts The weight of duty, the feeling of being trapped, the fear that I’d never really be free.
I woke up feeling like it would have been better if I hadn’t slept at all.
Learning from my mistake yesterday, I forced myself to eat a bagel for breakfast. It helped. I wasn’t quite so shaky, and the room didn’t tilt when I stood up.
Isaac messaged when I got to work: ‘Checking in. How are you feeling?’
Reading his message, it actually felt like a huge effort to reply. My fingers felt heavy on my phone. But I had to shake it off, remind myself how lucky I was to have people like him who worried about me and took the time to check in.
I tried to always make sure I never took for granted the people who put in the effort. If you’re not careful, it can be easy to do, to become so absorbed in your own pain that you forget to acknowledge the kindness being offered.
‘Thanks for checking in,’ I texted back. ‘I’m just not my best me right now.’
His reply came immediately: ‘Your worst is still better than most people’s best.‘
That made me smile; a real smile, the first in days.
It was nice to have him boost my spirits. It’s funny how little effort it takes to send someone a message like that, but how much it can mean to the person receiving it. You never know who is in desperate need of a little kindness, who is barely holding on and needs just one voice to remind them they matter.
I replied with a heart emoji and put my phone down, focusing my energy on work.
The day progressed at a snail’s pace, each hour dragging. I attempted to get out of my funk by working again on the carol booklet, but I was running on empty and just didn’t have it in me. The cheerful songs felt like they were mocking me, all that joy and celebration highlighting my own emptiness.
I had promised Marcy I would have this done. Other volunteers were doing so much work; preparing food for the event, finding matching hats and scarves for everyone, planning our caroling route. We would be practicing a bit at the hall before having lunch, then visiting a few homes to sing carols to people who had signed up. When it was done, the kids would all come back for hot chocolate and cookies.
I needed to pull my weight. I needed to shake this off.
“Great news!” Marcy announced as she popped her head into my cubicle.
I jumped, startled. “Oh, what’s that?”
“St. Mary’s has invited the kids to sing the songs they’ve practiced at Mass on Sunday!” She was practically vibrating with enthusiasm.
“That’s great news,” I said, doing my best to summon some enthusiasm of my own. “I’m sure the kids will be happy to do that.”
It was not my best effort, and I could see Marcy’s expression falter slightly.
“You’ll come Sunday, won’t you?” she asked.
This created a knot in my stomach. I hadn’t been to church in a few years, other than for a wedding and a couple of funerals. Not that my faith had diminished. I still believed, still prayed in my own way; just my way of navigating it had changed. The rituals felt empty after the divorce, and I’d drifted away.
“I don’t know if I can,” I said, the words coming out too quickly. “I’ll have to check.”
It was an obvious attempt to avoid disappointing her face to face, and we both knew it.
“I understand,” Marcy said, though her tone suggested she didn’t, not really. “Would you mind sending an email to the families to see if they’d be okay with their children doing this?”
“If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate if you did this one.” The words came out more sharply than I’d intended. “I just don’t think I can ‘sell’ it today.”
Marcy’s expression turned from excitement to concern. She sat on the edge of my desk, and I could feel her studying my face.
“Are you okay? You don’t seem to have your usual spark.”
“I’m fine.” The lie sat bitter on my tongue. “It can be a difficult time of year. I’ll navigate it, but it’s not my day.”
While I appreciated her worry, I didn’t want a lengthy discussion about this. I didn’t want to explain about Craig’s phone call, about spending Christmas alone again, about feeling like an afterthought in my own children’s lives. She seemed to sense this and gave me a candy cane from the bowl on her desk. “It’s hard to be sad when you’re eating a candy cane,” she said with a gentle smile.
“How many do you have?” I joked, trying to lighten the mood.
Her face saddened, and I was reminded,not for the first time, that not everyone enjoyed my dark humor. Some people didn’t use jokes as armor the way I did.




CHAPTER NINE
Breaking Through


When I got home that evening, I pulled my laptop out with every intention of getting the booklets done. I looked around my kitchen and considered making dinner; maybe something warm and comforting, soup perhaps.
The thought of these things drained me completely.
I ended up in my armchair with a blanket pulled up to my chin, putting on an old movie, ‘Miracle on 34th Street‘, the original, and letting it wash over me without really watching. Just then, there was a knock at my door.
I frowned. I wasn’t expecting anyone, and it was past the hour when neighbors might drop by. I checked the security camera on my phone and saw Isaac standing there with ice skates thrown over his shoulder, his face distorted as he leaned in close to the camera lens, making a silly expression. Despite everything, I felt something lighten inside me.
I went over and opened the door. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re going skating!” He announced it like he was inviting me to the moon. “Hurry up, Miss Humbug, get your skates. We don’t want to be late!”
I stood frozen, but he pushed past me with the confidence of someone who knew he was doing the right thing even if I didn’t realize it yet. He opened the door to the garage and started rummaging around. I was still standing in the doorway, stupefied, trying to process this scene.
“Well, where are they?” he called back to me.
“Where are what?” I managed to ask.
“Your skates. I thought you might keep them in the garage.” He paused, then I heard his footsteps heading to another part of the house. “Are they in the basement?”
His voice was trailing off as he headed downstairs. I finally snapped back into reality and followed him down.
“What are you doing?” I asked, still processing.
“I’m looking for your skates. I hope they don’t need to be sharpened; I don’t know if we have time for that.” He was pulling storage bins out, checking behind boxes. “Ah! Here they are.”
He slid the blade covers off and inspected them critically, running his thumb along the edge. “Perfect.”
Turning to look at me, he continued, “Don’t just stand there, silly. Go pull on something warm. You’ll freeze going out like that.”
He brushed past me and headed back upstairs, carrying my skates like they were treasure he’d unearthed.
Again, I was slow to catch up, my brain still trying to reconcile what was happening.
“Isaac ! No, I can’t go skating.” Even as I said the words, I couldn’t think of why I ‘couldn’t‘, just that I didn’t want to. Didn’t have the energy. Didn’t feel like pretending to have fun when I felt so hollow inside.
He stopped on the stairs and turned to face me, his expression somewhere between amused and determined.
“Why? Why can’t you?” He put the hand holding the skate laces on his hip and waited for my answer. “It better be a really good reason, or I’m taking you with me whether you want to go or not.”
My mind raced to come up with a reason. Any reason. Usually I was great at quick comebacks, could produce an excuse or deflection for any situation. But not today. Nothing came.
“Just as I thought,” he said, a smile playing at his lips. “You have no good reason. So go on, get dressed. Unless you want my help with that too.”
He gave me a playful smile as he turned me by my shoulders, physically pointing me toward the stairs. On autopilot, I went to my room and pulled out a thick sweater, fleece-lined leggings, warm socks. I stood in front of the mirror a moment, still a little in shock, but also with so many things rolling around in my head.
‘Was this a good idea? Could this be just what I need? He’s pretty bold, showing up here and bossing me around.‘
I looked at my bed, and it was calling to me; soft, safe, a place to hide from everything.
“Hurry up!” Isaac called from downstairs, his voice much louder than the call of my bed.
I smiled despite myself and finished getting dressed. I made my way back downstairs and found Isaac waiting with my coat and gloves in his hand like he was my personal valet.
“Let’s go, get the lead out,” he ordered, his eyes twinkling.
He smiled and laughed to himself, clearly quite proud of for making me do as he instructed. As I sat on the bench to put my boots on, I gave him a little smile. I was glad he had shown up. Grateful, even, though I wasn’t quite ready to admit it out loud.
He opened my car door for me and put the skates in the back seat. I realized he must have brought his to my door just for the theatrics. It worked. Just as I reached for the radio dial, he gently slapped my hand away.
“Nope. My car, my music,” he stated with mock seriousness, then turned on Christmas carols.
“You really are feeling quite assertive today, aren’t you?” I pointed out.
Isaac laughed and stared straight ahead, driving to our destination with marked determination, like a man on a mission.
We arrived at the outdoor rink in the town square. It was beautifully lit. Strings of white lights hung overhead, creating a canopy of stars, and the ice itself seemed to glow. There were roughly a dozen people on the ice and a similar number milling around the outside on the benches, enjoying hot chocolate from the small canteen. Christmas music played from speakers, not too loud, just enough to add to the atmosphere. The air smelled like snow and hot chocolate and pine from the enormous Christmas tree standing sentinel at one end of the rink.
Isaac carried my skates for me and led me to a bench. When I sat and started to get my skates ready, fumbling with the laces, he took them from my hands.
“Let me,” he said.
He knelt in front of me, pulled the laces back and widened the opening, making it easier to slide my foot in. Then he took a gentle hold of my ankle, slid my boot off, and guided my foot into the skate with surprising tenderness.
This felt quite intimate, despite us being out in public, or perhaps because of it. I felt myself blushing, warmth creeping up my neck. But that was erased the moment he dropped my blade between his knees and started to pull the laces with such force I thought I might never feel my feet again. I laughed, and he smiled as he continued to tie them up with determined efficiency.
“Can’t have you hurting your ankle out there,” he said. “Safety first.”
When both skates were secured, (probably tighter than they needed to be), I sat on the bench for a moment, letting the scene wash over me. The cold air kissing my face. The sounds of children laughing. The images of couples holding hands as they glided past. The smell of hot chocolate wafting from the canteen.
This was wonderful. It was definitely filling me up, pouring warmth back into the empty places. Isaac finished lacing his own skates and stood, extending his hand to me. I took it and we headed toward the ice.
I was getting excited now, the heaviness lifting. I looked at my hand in his, and at the other skaters who were hand in hand, and felt like I was part of something; part of this community, this moment, this beautiful winter evening. It was such a beautiful moment.
Isaac stepped out onto the ice first and held my hand firmly to assist me.It didn’t help. The moment my blade hit the ice, it shot out from under me like I’d stepped on a banana peel in a cartoon. My feet went up, and I landed hard on my bottom with an audible thump, pulling Isaac down with me in a tangle of limbs and skates.
Several people passing by stopped to help us, concerned voices asking if we were okay. My hand and bottom hurt so much, but I started laughing… big, gasping laughs that I couldn’t control. Isaac got to his knees and thanked the passersby, assuring them we were fine, and he was laughing too.
“I don’t know why,” he said once they’d skated away, “but I just always assumed you were graceful at everything you did.”
“I couldn’t have made that landing any more graceful if I had tried,” I quipped back, still giggling.
Isaac carefully helped me up, keeping a firm grip on both my hands until I was steady. It took a second for me to recalibrate. I hadn’t skated in a few years, and my body had forgotten the particular balance required. But then we were off, moving together in awkward stops and starts at first, then finding a rhythm.
Given my struggle, he let me get myself comfortable before sliding his hand back into mine. When he did, it felt so nice; natural and right, like our hands were meant to fit together exactly like this.
Looking at each other as we skated, I could feel that this really was something real. Not just friendship. Not just attraction. Something deeper, something that could become the foundation of a life together if I let it.
After we’d circled several times and my toes got tingly from the cold, Isaac asked, “Hot chocolate, or are you up for some dinner?”
Dinner sounded amazing. I found myself actually hungry, properly hungry, for the first time in days, ready to eat a full meal.
“I’d love some dinner, but I do need to get those carol booklets done.” I felt the weight of that obligation settling back in. “How about we grab some takeout and go to my place? I’d love a hand working on the books.”
“Sure, that sounds like a plan,” he replied as he knelt to unlace my skates for me, his chivalry greatly appreciated.
When I had my boots back on, my feet felt like foreign objects I needed to reacquaint myself with; swollen and strange, that particular feeling you get after skating. It was such an odd sensation. We hit Murphy’s and got a couple of our favorites to go; the curry for me, fish and chips for him, then headed back to my house.
I set us up at the coffee table and brought over my laptop while Isaac put on a Christmas movie, White Christmas, the Bing Crosby classic.
I watched him for a moment as he navigated my streaming services like he’d done it a hundred times, and I enjoyed how naturally he fit here, in my home, in my life. Like a piece that had been missing, now clicked into place.
We sat beside each other and I opened my computer, showing him what I had so far.
“I can create a book cover,” he offered immediately.
“That would be great. I hadn’t gotten that far yet.”
Isaac was talented at that sort of thing, he had an eye for design, and he whipped something up in just a few minutes. A cheerful winter scene with musical notes drifting like snowflakes, the words “Christmas Carols for Kids” in a festive font.
“That’s perfect,” I said, genuinely impressed.
We finished our dinner while the movie played, then I got the booklet fully organized and ready to print. As I sent the first copy to the printer, I got the notification dreaded by anyone trying to finish a project: ‘Ink cartridge low. Replace cartridge.‘
I went to my office to fix the issue, only to discover I didn’t have any replacement cartridges. Of course.
“I’ll run out and grab some ink,” Isaac piped up from the living room.
“Oh no, Isaac , that’s really out of the way for you. I can just do it tomorrow.”
“Nonsense. It’s not a big deal. I’ll be back in a flash.”
Before I could argue anymore, he was already grabbing his keys and heading out the door, calling back, “Don’t finish the movie without me!”
I paused it and cleaned up from our dinner, tidied the coffee table, made us both tea. True to his word, he was back in record time, and he’d brought Rocky Road ice cream as a bonus.
“I figured we needed a little dessert,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “We earned it.”
I definitely appreciated how much effort he was putting into this evening. It was exactly what I needed.
‘He‘ was what I needed.
I fixed the printer and got the first booklet printed while he scooped our dessert into bowls. The booklet turned out very well. The cover Isaac had designed looked professional, the lyrics were clear and readable, the whole thing had a polished quality I was proud of.
I set it up to print the remaining copies we’d need, and we settled back on the couch with our ice cream while the movie continued.
“You know,” Isaac said during a commercial, “I could use a hand getting the last couple of items from the wish list.”
“I’m happy to help with that. When were you thinking?”
“How about tomorrow night? We’re running out of time. This Saturday is the last event before the Christmas Eve celebration, and I’m guessing we’ll need an evening to get all the volunteers together to wrap the gifts.”
“Oh, yes, you’re right. We’ll need to get that organized sooner rather than later.” I made a mental note to email the volunteer group. “I also think I forgot to mention that the kids were invited to sing at Mass on Sunday. Are you able to come to that?”
“For sure. Do you think I can videotape it?” His face lit up with the idea. “It would be such a great memory for us all to be able to hold onto. The kids would love to see themselves performing.”
I loved his idea. “That sounds great. Let me ask Marcy to get permission from the parents. I know I’d love to be able to look back on this, and I’m sure they would too.”
We got all the booklets printed and assembled; folding, stapling, making neat stacks organized by song. It was satisfying work, tangible progress. We’d created something that would bring joy to children, something that would be part of their Christmas memories.
When Isaac finally left, later than either of us had planned, he gave me a huge hug. It was warm and filled with love. Not that he was pushing for anything from me, not asking for more than I was ready to give. He just wanted me to know he loved me. And I hugged him right back, holding on tight, trying to communicate without words what I wasn’t ready to say out loud yet.
Before heading to bed, I sat down and looked at the booklets we had made, fanned out across my coffee table in neat rows. I was so pleased with how they had turned out, cheerful and professional and exactly what I’d envisioned.
‘I hope the children love them,’ I thought to myself. I went to bed replaying the wonderful evening. That night I slept.

CHAPTER TEN
Winter Wonderland


Between the wonderful evening skating with Isaac , the building excitement of the charity event, and a surprisingly good night’s sleep, I woke Friday morning feeling wonderful. Genuinely, unexpectedly wonderful.
It had snowed overnight, and the scene outside my bedroom window was straight from a Christmas card. Everything was blanketed in pristine white; the roofs, the yards, the bare tree branches transformed into something magical. It was still fairly dark out, just a glow building at the horizon as dawn approached, but Christmas lights were still illuminated on neighboring houses, their colors reflecting off the fresh snow in jewel tones.
Red, green, gold, blue; all of it sparkling like scattered gems.
I pulled my comforter up to my chin and just basked in the moment. The warm and fuzzies were back again, flooding through me with an intensity I’d forgotten was possible. This was what Christmas was supposed to feel like; this anticipation, this wonder, this feeling that magic might actually exist in the world. I lay there for several minutes, not wanting to break the spell, watching as the sky gradually lightened and the snow began to glow with that peculiar blue-white luminescence of early morning.
‘Thank you‘, I thought, to no one in particular. ‘Thank you for this.‘
At work, Marcy was in her usual chipper mood, moving through the office like a one-woman Christmas parade. She was actually singing, “There’s No Place Like Home for the Holidays”, her voice carrying over the cubicle walls, completely unselfconscious about her off-key enthusiasm.
Several people smiled as she passed. You couldn’t help but smile around Marcy. Her joy was infectious. I caught her attention and waved her over. She appeared at my desk with her ever-present candy cane in hand, offering it to me like a peace treaty or a blessing.
“I have something to show you,” I said, pulling out the completed carol booklets.
I spread them across my desk, and Marcy’s face lit up like I’d shown her treasure. She picked one up reverently, flipping through the pages, reading the lyrics, running her fingers over Isaac ’s cover design.
“These are perfect!” she exclaimed. “The kids are going to love these so much. And look at this cover. Did Isaac design this?”
“He did. He’s pretty talented.”
“He really is.” She set down the booklet and suddenly hugged me; a genuine, warm embrace that caught me off guard but felt wonderful. “Thank you for doing this. I know you put a lot of work into these.”
Christmas definitely offered an extra helping of hugs, I thought. Which was absolutely fine by me.
“Isaac said he can come Sunday,” I told her once she’d released me. “And he asked if it’s okay to record the kids singing. He thought it would be a nice keepsake for everyone; and for us volunteers too.”
“That would be great!” Marcy’s face lit up even more, if that was possible. “The video would be wonderful. But we can only share it on the charity page, which is private. It’s something all the parents agreed to when they signed up; no public posting of their children. But you guys will definitely be able to see everything on there.”
She paused, a little twinkle appearing in her eye. “Can I conclude this means you’re coming Sunday? To church?”
“Yes,” I said, somewhat surprised by my own certainty. “I will definitely be there.”
“Wonderful! Oh, that reminds me, do you have a copy of the route we’re taking tomorrow? I just want to make sure you’re prepared.”
“That’s actually what I was going to ask you about,” I admitted.
Marcy pulled out her phone and started scrolling. “Okay, so we had to limit the number of houses. It turns out it’s going to be quite cold tomorrow; well below freezing. If we keep the kids out too long in that, they’ll end up having a miserable time instead of a joyful one.”
She found what she was looking for and continued, “So we’ll do four houses on the route, then come back to the hall for hot chocolate and extended activities. I was thinking we’d bring some coloring pages and board games to keep the fun going.”
Marcy was remarkably in tune with the needs of children, understanding instinctively how to create wonderful experiences while keeping them safe and comfortable.
“Oh!” I said, a memory surfacing. “I have a karaoke machine at home. It was a gift for my kids a few years ago, but they’ve all moved out now and it’s just sitting in my basement. I could bring that and one of those fun disco lights. The kids could do Christmas karaoke after the caroling.”
“That’s brilliant!” Marcy clapped her hands together. “They’ll love that. Our little performers especially; I’m thinking of Suzie and Timmy in particular.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” I laughed. “Those two would probably sing for hours if we let them.”
We spent the better part of the day going over every detail of the weekend. This was the final weekend before our big Christmas Eve celebration, and there were so many moving pieces to coordinate.
Saturday: caroling and karaoke at the hall. Sunday: singing at Mass. Tuesday: the volunteers’ potluck dinner where we’d wrap and organize all the gifts. And then Wednesday; Christmas Eve itself, the culmination of everything we’d been working toward.
There was so much still to do, but for the first time in years, I was excited rather than anxious about Christmas approaching.
Saturday morning came quickly, arriving with bright sunshine that made the snow from the previous night sparkle like it had been dusted with diamonds. Isaac picked me up right on time, and like my usual hero, he brought me coffee; perfectly prepared, still hot, exactly what I needed.
“You’re spoiling me,” I said as I climbed into his car.
“That’s literally the entire point,” he replied with a grin.
I was so excited I could barely sit still. My hands kept fidgeting with the coffee cup, and I couldn’t stop smiling.
“You look like a big kid, smiling ear to ear,” Isaac remarked, glancing over at me.
“I can’t help it. I think I’m looking forward to this event more than any of the others.” I took a sip of my coffee, savoring the warmth. “There’s something so beautiful about children singing, especially Christmas carols. Something pure about it.”
“There’s definitely something angelic about children’s voices singing Christmas carols,” Isaac agreed. “Even when they’re a little off-key, it’s still somehow perfect.”
We arrived at the Legion hall to discover we were the first ones there. The parking lot was empty except for Marcy’s car. She’d clearly been there for a while, getting everything ready.
“I guess I was very, very anxious to get here,” I admitted with a laugh.
We sat in his car for a few minutes, the heater running, watching as other cars began to arrive. Volunteers emerged bundled in winter coats, arms loaded with supplies. The hall began to come alive.
When Marcy spotted us, she waved enthusiastically and unlocked the doors. We all filed in, stomping snow from our boots, unwrapping scarves, transitioning from the bitter cold outside to the warmth within. Fortunately, the hall was still decorated from our previous events. Garlands draped the walls, the artificial tree stood proudly in the corner, and strings of lights created a festive atmosphere. We wouldn’t need to spend time on decorating. But there was still plenty to do. We organized everything methodically: carrying in the food for lunch, distributing the carol booklets in neat stacks, unpacking the matching green and red striped hats and scarves for the kids. I set up my karaoke machine in the corner with the disco light, testing to make sure everything worked.
Isaac and Marcy huddled together discussing the best angles for videotaping, Isaac making test recordings to check the lighting and sound quality.
It was gearing up to be a really great day.
When the kids started to arrive, the energy in the room transformed completely. Excitement crackled in the air. Children were bouncing, chattering, showing off their winter coats to each other, pointing at the karaoke setup with wide eyes.
“Is that for us?” one little girl asked, pointing at the machine.
“It sure is,” I told her. “After we go caroling, we’re going to come back here for hot chocolate and karaoke. Do you like to sing?”
“I love to sing!” she exclaimed, then immediately broke into an impromptu rendition of “Jingle Bells” right there in the hallway.
Though not all the children were so bold. I noticed a couple who seemed shy, trying to position themselves at the back of the group, hiding behind taller kids. One was a small boy I recognized from previous events, Marcus, who’d been gradually coming out of his shell. The other was a girl I didn’t know as well, Emma, who kept her eyes fixed on the floor.
Marcy had prepared instrumental tracks for all the songs in our booklets. We’d practice with the music first, she explained to the children, so everyone could get comfortable with the flow and rhythm before we went outside in the cold.
“Okay, everyone!” Marcy called out, clapping her hands. “Let’s get into a semi-circle here. Performers in front, everyone else behind. And remember, we’re singing together as a group. That means we match our volume, we come in together, we breathe together.”
As we started working through the songs, it became immediately apparent that Suzie was a natural performer. She positioned herself front and center without any prompting, standing straight with perfect posture, her voice clear and strong.
During “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” she even added a little choreography; touching her nose when the lyrics mentioned it, pretending to pull a sleigh. The other kids started copying her, and suddenly we had an entire group of reindeer.
“You’re a natural, Suzie,” I told her during a break.
“I know,” she said simply, without arrogance. Just a child’s honest assessment. “My mom says I should be on television. Maybe on one of those singing shows.”
“Well, your mom might be right about that.”
Timmy, meanwhile, sang with maximum enthusiasm and minimal accuracy. He belted out every word at full volume, occasionally inventing new lyrics when he forgot the real ones. During “Deck the Halls,” he sang “Fa la la la la, something something” for an entire verse.
“Timmy,” I said gently during a water break, “remember what Marcy said about singing as a group? That means matching our volume to everyone else’s.”
“But I want to make sure the people in the houses can really hear me,” he explained earnestly, his face serious.
“They will definitely hear you, buddy,” Isaac said, kneeling down to Timmy’s level. “Your voice is strong. But right now, let’s practice singing at this volume.” He demonstrated, and Timmy nodded with determination.
“Okay, I can do that. I’m really good at following directions when I try.”
By the third run-through of “Silent Night,” even Marcus was singing; quietly at first, barely a whisper, but gradually growing in confidence. And Emma had moved from the back to stand with the other girls her age, her sweet voice adding a delicate harmony.
All of the kids were doing so well. Their voices were blending in ways I hadn’t expected, natural harmonies emerging as they relaxed into the music.
After about two hours of practice, with water breaks and snack breaks interspersed, Marcy called for lunch. The lunch spread was impressive. Volunteers had brought everything; sandwiches cut into fun shapes, fruit cut to look like Christmas trees, crackers and cheese arranged in festive patterns. And, of course, an entire table dedicated to desserts.
Isaac made a beeline for the sweets. I watched him load his plate with cookies, brownies, and what looked like homemade fudge.
“Dessert research?” I teased.
“Absolutely. Very important research,” he said solemnly, taking a bite of a chocolate chip cookie. “This is excellent. I need to befriend whoever made these.”
The kids ate with typical childhood enthusiasm; lots of chatter, trading snacks, showing each other their favorites. But I noticed Timmy being particularly careful with two cookies, wrapping them in napkins and tucking them into his backpack when he thought no one was watching.
I wandered over to where he was sitting. “Whatcha got there, Timmy?”
He looked up, slightly guilty. “Just some cookies. Are we allowed to take cookies home?”
“Of course,” I assured him. “Are those for someone special?”
His face brightened. “They’re for my sister. She’s too young to come to all the fun stuff with the charity, so I wanted to bring her something. We’ve been making Christmas crafts together now. You know, like the ones we did here? And things are really, really good with us.”
My throat tightened with emotion. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Timmy. I bet she’ll love those cookies. And I’m so glad things are going well with your sister.”
“Yeah, we’re making gifts for our whole family. Christmas crafts and decorations. My mom cried when we gave her one, but like, good crying. You know?”
“I know exactly what you mean,” I said softly. “Those are the best kind of tears.”
After lunch, we bundled the children up for the cold. Hats, scarves, mittens, extra layers; making sure everyone was properly protected against the frigid temperature outside. Then we loaded them into cars. Volunteers driving carefully, precious cargo secured in seat belts; and headed to our first house on the caroling route. The house belonged to the Chen family. We’d been told that Mrs. Chen was elderly and couldn’t get out much in the winter. Her daughter had signed up for the caroling visit, wanting to bring some Christmas joy to her mother.
When we arrived, we organized ourselves on the front walk; volunteers and children alike wearing our matching green and red striped hats and scarves, carol booklets held ready, faces beaming with anticipation.
Marcy knocked on the door. It opened to reveal not just Mrs. Chen, but what appeared to be three generations of family. Grandchildren, great-grandchildren, all crowded into the doorway with phones already out to record.
Mrs. Chen herself was tiny and frail, supported by her daughter, but her face lit up with such joy when she saw us that several of the volunteers started getting misty-eyed immediately.
Isaac positioned himself to the side with his phone ready to record. I gave the children an encouraging nod. And they began to sing.
“We wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas…”
The sound was magical. Not perfect, there were still a few missed words here and there, a couple of kids who came in late on the second verse. But it was genuine and joyful and exactly what Christmas should sound like.
Mrs. Chen had tears streaming down her face. Her daughter was crying too, one arm around her mother, the other hand pressed to her mouth. The younger family members were recording with one hand and wiping their eyes with the other. When the song ended, the family burst into applause. Mrs. Chen was saying something in Cantonese that I didn’t understand, but the emotion was universal.
“Thank you, thank you,” her daughter translated. “She says this is the most beautiful Christmas gift she’s ever received. That you’ve brought Christmas to her heart.”
Mrs. Chen disappeared for a moment with help from her daughter, then returned with a plate piled high with homemade almond cookies.
“Please,” the daughter said, “Mom insists. She baked these this morning because she knew you were coming. She wanted to have something to give you.”
As we distributed the cookies to the delighted children, Timmy leaned over to me and whispered loudly, “This is like trick-or-treating! But better because it’s Christmas!”
Several adults laughed, and Mrs. Chen, even without fully understanding the words, smiled at Timmy’s enthusiasm.
Each house was similar; doors opening to reveal families gathered together, often with extended family present specifically to watch the children sing. At one house, a military family, the father stood at attention during “Joy to the World” and saluted, his eyes bright with emotion.
“My kids are overseas this year,” he told us afterward, his voice thick. “This… this meant everything. Thank you.”
At another house, a family sent the kids home with candy canes; not just one each, but handfuls, distributed with generous joy.
One elderly woman who lived alone stood in her doorway weeping through all three songs we sang for her. Afterward, she hugged each child individually, telling them they were angels, that they’d saved her Christmas.
“I was going to spend the day alone,” she confided to Marcy. “But now I’ll remember this. I’ll remember these beautiful children and their beautiful voices.”
Suzie performed like she was on stage at every house. She had this remarkable ability to project her voice, to add little theatrical touches; hand gestures, facial expressions, that elevated the whole performance. At one point during “Frosty the Snowman,” she actually did a little spin that made everyone laugh with delight.
Marcus, the shy boy who’d been hiding at the back during practice, gradually found his confidence with each house. By our third stop, he was singing at full volume, standing right next to Timmy, the two of them becoming fast friends.
“You’re really good at this,” Timmy told Marcus between houses.
“You think so?” Marcus looked genuinely surprised.
“Yeah! You should stand in front with me and Suzie.”
And at the fourth house, he did.
Emma discovered she could harmonize. During “Silent Night” at our final house, she started adding these delicate higher notes, and suddenly the whole group sounded more polished, more professional. The family watching actually gasped when her harmony came in.
By the time we’d completed our route and returned to the community hall, the children had accumulated quite a haul. Cookies, candy canes, chocolates, and even a few small toys that generous families had added to their offerings.
“This is the best day ever!” Timmy declared as we walked back into the warmth of the hall, his arms full of treats.
“Did you see how happy everyone was?” Emma asked me, her earlier shyness completely gone. “They were really, really happy we came. Some of them were crying.”
“They were,” I agreed, helping her out of her coat. “You all did something really special today. You brought Christmas to people who might have been lonely without you. That’s a gift that’s more valuable than anything you could wrap up and put under a tree.”
Inside, the hall had been transformed. Volunteers who’d stayed behind had set up long tables with hot chocolate stations; multiple varieties including regular, peppermint, and even white hot chocolate. Plates of cookies and treats were arranged. And my karaoke setup was ready, the disco light already casting colorful patterns on the walls. The children dove into the hot chocolate with enthusiasm. Steam rose from mugs clutched in cold hands, marshmallows floating like little clouds. The chatter was loud and happy, everyone talking over each other about their favorite house, the cookies they’d received, the families who’d cried. After they’d warmed up sufficiently, Marcy called for attention.
“Who wants to do some karaoke?”
The response was overwhelming. Hands shot up, kids bouncing in their seats, voices calling out “Me! Me! I do!”
Suzie, unsurprisingly, volunteered to go first. She chose “All I Want for Christmas Is You” and delivered a performance that was genuinely impressive. She had the runs, the sustained notes, even some of the attitude of the original.
The volunteers watching actually broke into genuine applause, not the polite applause adults give children, but real appreciation for real talent.
“That girl has a future,” Isaac murmured to me.
“She really does,” I agreed.
Timmy went next, choosing “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” and delivering it with such dramatic flair, complete with exaggerated sound effects for the sleigh collision, that everyone was in stitches.
Marcus, emboldened by his newfound confidence, sang “Frosty the Snowman” with surprising sweetness.
Emma chose “Silent Night” again and her harmonies were even more beautiful without the other voices competing for space.
Other kids rotated through, some singing solos, others pairing up for duets. The afternoon stretched on, filled with music and laughter and the particular joy of children being thoroughly, completely happy.
Later, as we were cleaning up and the families were collecting their children, Isaac showed me some of the videos he’d captured on his phone.
They were beautiful. You could hear the joy in the children’s voices, see the gratitude on the faces of the families. The matching hats and scarves made them look like an official choir.
“These are perfect,” I said, scrolling through. “The families are going to treasure these.”
“I’ll send them all to Marcy for the charity page,” Isaac said. “And I’ll send you some too; the ones where you can’t really see the kids’ faces, in case you want to share them.”
Later that evening, after I’d gotten home and had dinner, Isaac sent me a video he’d captured from behind the children. You couldn’t see their faces clearly, just their backs and the matching hats and scarves creating this beautiful visual uniformity, but you could hear their voices perfectly. It captured the magic without compromising anyone’s privacy.
I forwarded it to my family group chat with a simple message: ‘This is what I’ve been up to these past weeks. So grateful for this experience.‘
My daughter Vanessa replied first: ‘Wow, Mom, I had no idea it was such an organized event. This is really beautiful. You can hear how happy the kids are.‘
Two of my sons, James and Craig, just reacted to the video with heart emojis. They didn’t comment, which stung a little, but at least they’d acknowledged it. Mike, my youngest son, sent: ‘That’s great, Mom. Maybe we should all sing Christmas carols together when we see each other.‘ When we see each other.
Not “at Christmas.” Not “in a few days.” Just… eventually. Sometime in the vague future.
The words hit me like a physical blow, even though I’d been expecting them. Maybe especially because I’d been expecting them.
I replied: ‘I would love that. Can’t wait to see you all. Miss you terribly. It would be so nice to hear you all sing together again.‘
It had been so long since we’d done that. When they were younger, music was always playing in the house. We’d dance around the living room, singing to whatever was on; Disney soundtracks, classic rock, terrible pop music they loved and I pretended to hate.
Even as they got older, car rides were mini concerts. Everyone would belt out songs at full volume, completely unselfconscious, nothing holding them back. Just pure joy.
Those were some of my favorite memories. The sound of my children’s voices raised in song, the laughter, the feeling that we were all exactly where we were meant to be. I missed those times with an ache that felt physical.
I found myself imagining them all here; all four of my children gathered around my piano (the one that mostly sat silent these days), singing Christmas carols together. What that would look like, sound like, feel like.
But it was just imagination. Just wishful thinking.