CHAPTER ELEVEN
Murphy’s and Meanings


Given that we wouldn’t be able to do our usual Monday night at Murphy’s. Isaac was spending Monday evening with Sebastian before his son left for his ski trip; we decided to go that evening instead, right after the caroling event.
“I won’t see you for a couple of days,” Isaac pointed out as we were packing up supplies. “We have church tomorrow, but then I won’t see you again until Tuesday night for the gift wrapping.”
“Then we definitely need our Murphy’s fix tonight,” I agreed. The thought of going two whole days without seeing him felt strange. When had that happened? When had Isaac become such a constant in my life that his absence felt notable?
When we arrived at Murphy’s, I was disappointed to discover that Shelly wasn’t working. The bar was busy with the Saturday night crowd, and we had to wait a bit for a table, standing at the crowded bar surrounded by noise and the smell of beer and fried food.
Though we were regulars, there were so many staff members who came and went that not everyone always knew us. Or maybe there were so many regulars that we weren’t particularly distinguished. Either way, without Shelly there to spot us and expedite things, we were just part of the crowd.
The wait gave me time to think. “I should bring Shelly something for Christmas,” I said to Isaac. “A little thank you gift. She’s always so lovely to us.”
“That’s a nice idea,” Isaac agreed. “What were you thinking?”
“Maybe a gift card and a card? Something simple but meaningful. I don’t want to overstep, but I want her to know she’s appreciated.”
When we finally got seated, at a table near the back, not our usual spot by the window, we ordered immediately. We always knew what we wanted. Occasionally we might take the menu and look through it to see if anything new had been added, but typically we stuck to our favorites. For me, it was the Thai curry. For Isaac , the fish and chips. We’d been ordering the same things for so long that the waitress barely needed to write it down.
“The usual?” she confirmed.
“The usual,” we agreed in unison, then laughed at ourselves.
The evening was wonderful. We shared stories about the kids, the funny things they’d said and done throughout the day.
“Did you see Timmy’s face when he got that handful of candy canes?” Isaac asked, laughing. “I thought his eyes were going to pop out of his head.”
“And Suzie’s performance at the karaoke!” I added. “That girl is destined for Broadway.”
“Marcus singing in front at the last house,” Isaac continued. “Remember at the first event, he could barely make eye contact? And today he was front and center, singing his heart out.”
“That’s what this is all about,” I said softly. “Giving these kids confidence, joy, community. Making them feel valued.”
“You’ve been amazing with them,” Isaac said, his voice warm. “They all adore you. Did you see how many of them ran to hug you when we got back to the hall?”
I had noticed, actually. Multiple children had sought me out specifically for hugs, for high-fives, for that particular connection kids make when they trust you. It had filled my heart in ways I hadn’t expected.
The food arrived, and we ate contentedly, conversation flowing easily between bites. We talked about the upcoming week, the gift wrapping on Tuesday, the Christmas Eve event on Wednesday.
“Are you nervous?” Isaac asked. “About Christmas Eve, I mean. It’s the big finale.”
“A little,” I admitted. “I want it to be perfect for the kids. They deserve perfect.”
“It will be,” Isaac assured me. “You and Marcy have planned everything down to the smallest detail. Those kids are going to have the Christmas of their lives.”
At the end of the night, when Isaac took me home, I noticed something had shifted between us. The awkwardness that had lingered after our kiss was mostly gone now, replaced by something easier, more natural.
Though I was also looking at him differently, with new eyes. Adjusting my perspective, trying to figure out if this. Us, together as more than friends; was something that could really work.
As he dropped me off, he walked me to my door. He always did this, and I’d come to appreciate it more than I probably should. People don’t really do that much anymore, I’d realized. Even when I’d gone on dates in the years after my divorce, most men just pulled up to the curb. Maybe opened my door for me if I was lucky. But Isaac always walked me all the way to my door. Waited while I unlocked it. Made sure I was safely inside before he left.
These little gestures, they were free. They just took a tiny bit of effort. But they created nice moments. They showed you genuinely cared, that the person was worth that little bit of extra attention. Because not everybody will put in that effort for you. And when someone does, it matters. It really matters.
“Thank you for today,” I said at my door. “For everything. The coffee, the driving, the videos, just… being there.”
“Thank you for including me,” Isaac replied. “This has been one of the best experiences of my life. Getting to do this with you, seeing those kids’ faces, knowing we’re making a difference. It’s been incredible.”
He hugged me goodnight; a warm, genuine embrace that lasted just long enough to be meaningful without being presumptuous. And as I watched him walk back to his truck, something in my chest tightened. A realization, maybe. Or a question I wasn’t quite ready to answer yet.
Sunday morning, I got ready for church with unexpected nervousness fluttering through my stomach. I’d laid out a sensible but pretty dress the night before, navy blue with a subtle floral pattern, appropriate for Mass without being dowdy. I even dug out the pearl necklace my mother had given me years ago, letting my fingers linger on the smooth beads, thinking of her.
I hadn’t been to church in a while; a few years, actually, aside from the occasional wedding or funeral. It wasn’t that my faith had diminished. I still believed, still prayed in my own way, found God in quiet moments alone. But the rituals had felt empty after my divorce. The church had felt like one more place I didn’t quite belong anymore. So I’d drifted away, finding my spirituality in other spaces. Going back felt significant somehow. Like a homecoming, but to a home that had changed in my absence; or maybe I was the one who’d changed.
There was a lot to remember about attending Mass. When to stand, when to kneel, when to respond to the priest’s words. The choreography of faith, the muscle memory of worship. I found myself hoping I wouldn’t mess it up, wouldn’t stand when everyone else was kneeling, wouldn’t accidentally say the wrong response at the wrong time.
Isaac picked me up, and, ‘thank God’, he hadn’t forgotten my coffee.
“You’re literally saving my life,” I said, taking the cup gratefully.
“It’s really just coffee,” he pointed out, but he was smiling.
I’d made blueberry muffins that morning; stress baking at six AM while still in my pajamas, and we ate them in the car on the way to St. Mary’s. They were still warm, the berries bursting with sweetness, and for a few minutes, we just drove in comfortable silence, eating breakfast and listening to Christmas music on the radio.
When we arrived at the church, families were pulling into the parking lot from all directions. Children piled out of cars, excited chatter filling the cold morning air. You could see their breath in little clouds.
An assistant from the church, a kind-looking woman in her sixties wearing a festive Christmas sweater, was waiting at the entrance. She escorted the children inside, taking them to a room at the back where they’d wait until their time to sing.
“They’ll be in the choir loft,” she explained to the waiting parents and volunteers. “Father Michael thought it would be lovely for their voices to come from above, like angels singing from heaven.”
The volunteers from the charity grouped together as best we could, finding seats near the back of the sanctuary. If it’s not your church, you really shouldn’t take the front seats, those belonged to the regular parishioners, the people who came every week, who supported this community year-round with their time and donations and presence.
The church was beautiful. High ceilings with exposed wooden beams, stained glass windows that cast colored light across the pews, the smell of incense and candle wax and old wood. There was something comforting about it, something timeless. These walls had witnessed decades of worship, baptisms and weddings and funerals, the full cycle of human life.
The Mass began, and I found myself falling into the rhythm more easily than I’d expected. The familiar prayers came back to me; muscle memory, my lips forming words they’d said thousands of times before.
‘Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.’
The sitting and standing and kneeling that had seemed potentially awkward at home felt natural here, my body remembering even when my mind had forgotten.
Father Michael was a good priest. His homily was thoughtful without being preachy, touching on themes of hope and community and finding light in dark times. Several people around me were nodding, clearly moved by his words.
The children were scheduled to sing near the end of the service. As we approached that moment, Father Michael made an announcement.
“We’re blessed today,” he said, his voice warm and welcoming, “to have a special gift from some very talented young people. These children have been working hard to prepare something beautiful for our community. Please join me in welcoming them.”
There was a rustling from the choir loft above and behind us. I turned to look up and saw the children filing in, wearing their matching green and red hats and scarves, holding their carol booklets. Then… silence. That particular church silence that’s somehow deeper than ordinary quiet. The whole sanctuary seemed to hold its breath. And then, like something from a dream, the first notes of “Silent Night” floated down from above.
‘Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright…’
It was one of the most beautiful sounds I’d ever heard.
Their voices blended in ways they hadn’t during practice. The acoustics of the church added something, a resonance, a richness, that gave me chills. You could hear individual voices. Suzie’s clear soprano soaring above the rest, Timmy’s enthusiastic if slightly off-key contribution, Emma’s sweet harmonies weaving through it all; but they came together into something greater than the sum of their parts.
Something transcendent.
Something holy.
I wasn’t the only one affected. Looking around, I could see expressions of deep emotion. One woman dabbed at her eyes with tissues, with the warmest smile. The elderly man in the pew ahead of us had his head bowed, in respectful appreciation. The woman beside me reached over and squeezed my hand. We were strangers, but in that moment, we were connected by shared emotion, by the recognition that we were experiencing something rare and precious.
A young couple in front of us held each others hands. They looked into each others eyes with such tenderness. Even Father Michael, standing at the altar, was visibly impacted, his face transforming from composed to openly affected.
‘Sleep in heavenly peace, sleep in heavenly peace…’
When the children finished, there was a long beat of silence. No one wanted to break the spell, to return to ordinary time from whatever sacred space we’d been inhabiting.
Then applause erupted; filling the sanctuary, echoing off the high ceilings. People were standing, clapping, some calling out “Bravo!” Father Michael was beaming through his tears, and even some of the altar servers were applauding.
The children in the choir loft were beaming with pride, waving down at the congregation, clearly pleased with the reception.
We hadn’t been able to film during the service, someone from the church had specifically requested that phones be put away, wanting people to be fully present rather than experiencing the moment through screens. But the church’s media team had recorded the performance with proper equipment, and they promised to share it with the charity.
When it arrived that evening via email, I must have watched it a dozen times. Each viewing brought fresh tears. The video captured not just the children’s voices but the congregation’s reaction; the joy, the gratitude, the spiritual connection. This was what Christmas was supposed to be about, I thought. Not presents or decorations or perfect family gatherings. This, bringing light to others, creating moments of transcendent beauty, connecting across all the artificial boundaries we normally maintain.
After Mass ended, we all gathered outside on the church steps. The temperature had dropped, our breath visible in small clouds, but no one seemed in a hurry to leave. There was that particular after-church feeling; people lingering, chatting, not quite ready to return to secular life.
Timmy spotted me and came running over, launching himself at me with a bear hug that nearly knocked me over.
“Did you hear me?” His face was flushed with cold and excitement. “I sang SO loud! I think I was the loudest one up there!”
I laughed, steadying myself. “I definitely heard you, Timmy. You did such a good job. You all did.”
“I can’t wait for Christmas Eve!” he continued, bouncing on his toes to keep warm. “I can’t wait to see what Santa brings me. Do you think he heard me singing today? Do you think he knows I’ve been good?”
“I think Santa definitely knows,” I assured him. “You’ve been wonderful, Timmy. Just wonderful.”
He hugged me again, then ran off to join some other kids who were making snow angels on the church lawn. Suzie approached more sedately, her pride evident but expressed with more restraint.
“Miss Daniella,” she said, her voice carrying that particular mix of pride and question that children have when they want praise but aren’t quite bold enough to demand it. “Did you think I sang well? I tried really hard to make it pretty.”
“You sang beautifully, Suzie,” I told her honestly. “You have a real gift. A very special gift.”
She beamed, then leaned in conspiratorially. “My mom talked to Father Michael after, and he said maybe next year I could sing a solo at the Christmas Eve Mass. Do you think I’m good enough for that?”
“I think you’re absolutely good enough for that,” I said without hesitation. “You keep practicing, keep working hard, and there’s no limit to what you can do.”
She practically glowed with happiness before running off to tell her friends.
As parents collected their children and people began drifting toward their cars, I noticed something that warmed my heart: friendships were solidifying. Kids who’d been strangers at the first event were now exchanging phone numbers, making plans to play together over Christmas break.
Marcus and Timmy were deep in conversation about video games, discovering they both loved the same titles. Emma and Suzie were giggling over some private joke, already acting like they’d been friends for years. A group of older kids, the ones who’d been skeptical at first, were planning to meet up at someone’s house to watch Christmas movies.
This charity work wasn’t just creating joyous memories. It was building community, forging connections, giving these children something that would last far beyond the presents they’d receive on Christmas Eve.
Watching them, I felt a profound sense of gratitude. For Marcy, who’d pulled me into this. For Isaac , who’d been by my side through all of it. For these children, who’d reminded me what Christmas could be. For this whole experience that had opened up something in me I’d thought was permanently closed.













CHAPTER TWELVE
The Lonely Hours


Monday at work, Marcy and I chatted about how well the weekend had gone. She was riding high on the success, but also getting a little nervous about the amount of work that still needed to be done for Wednesday’s Christmas Eve celebration.
“Do you ever feel like the more organized you get, the more you realize how much there is still to do?” she asked, scrolling through her multiple lists.
“Story of my life,” I laughed.
We went over everything: gifts purchased and accounted for, food assignments for Tuesday’s potluck, volunteer schedules for Wednesday, backup plans for various contingencies. Marcy had thought of everything, down to having extra batteries for the toys and a first aid kit in case any child got overexcited and hurt themselves.
“You’ve done an incredible job organizing all this,” I told her sincerely.
“We’ve done it together,” she corrected. “This has been a real team effort.”
All the gifts had been purchased. Everything was in line. Wednesday would be perfect. It had to be.
I went home that evening feeling strangely melancholy. It was Monday night, usually my night with Isaac at Murphy’s, but he was spending the evening with Sebastian before his son left town. I contemplated going to Murphy’s by myself. I even went so far as to put on shoes and grab my keys. But standing at my door, I realized it just didn’t seem right. The ritual belonged to both of us. Doing it alone would only emphasize his absence.
So instead, I stayed home and put on ‘Scrooge‘, the 1951 version with Alastair Sim, the definitive version as far as I was concerned. I’d watched it every Christmas Eve as a child, back when it aired on PBS with all the pledge drive interruptions.
Now I could just stream it, no interruptions. My kids had no idea how good they had it with modern technology. Though I sometimes missed those interruptions, in a strange way. They were part of the experience, part of the ritual. I tried calling my children. None of them answered.
James didn’t pick up. Neither did Vanessa. Craig messaged: ‘At work, will call later‘ but later never came. Mike was supposedly at the gym and would call me back; but didn’t.
By eight o’clock, sitting in my undecorated house watching a movie about redemption and the Christmas spirit, I was feeling pretty sad.
I looked around at my living room. No tree, no garlands, no stockings hung by the mantel. Just the one small ceramic cottage on the kitchen island, my sole concession to Christmas decorating. I remembered other years. Years when this house had been full of lights and decorations and people. Years when Christmas music played constantly, when you couldn’t walk from room to room without tripping over someone, when laughter echoed off the walls. I felt really lonely.
I didn’t have much motivation to do anything. So I actually made cereal for dinner that night; Cheerios, eaten standing at the kitchen counter, staring at that little cottage and feeling sorry for myself. Not my finest moment. But I really wasn’t up to cooking a proper meal, and ordering takeout just for myself felt wasteful and depressing in equal measure.
I went to bed early, though it was barely eight-thirty. Crawled under the covers and tried to sleep, hoping unconsciousness would provide escape from the loneliness. But it was another one of those nights where sleep wouldn’t come. I tossed and turned, my mind spinning in circles.
I was caught in a conflict of emotions. Part of me was excited about Tuesday’s potluck, about seeing all the volunteers, about the Christmas Eve event on Wednesday. That part was genuinely happy, looking forward to what was coming. But another part,a louder, more insistent part, was sad. Sad about my house being empty of my children. Empty of Christmas decorations. Empty of anyone else to share my time with. And I thought about Isaac. What it might be like to share my life with someone as an adult.
Getting together with someone at this stage was so different from when you’re young. We’d both spent years, decades, cultivating our own lives, building exactly the existence we wanted based on our needs, our preferences, our hard-won independence. Bringing someone else in who’d done the same? It required compromise, negotiation, a willingness to adjust routines that had become comfortable. And when you’d had previous relationships where you’d put so much into them and lost so much of yourself. Because you were constantly looking after everyone else, their needs always taking priority; the thought of risking that again was daunting. Terrifying, even.
I felt like Isaac and I had known each other long enough that he really knew me. Knew the good parts and the difficult parts and the messy parts. He’d never tried to change me, never tried to edit how I thought or what I felt. If that was his nature, to control or modify his partner, I would have seen it by now. We’d spent enough time together, been through enough situations.
But it was still scary.
And then I remembered what Isaac had said, that maybe I was letting fear prevent me from getting everything I wanted. But the reality was, what I wanted most right then was my kids.
I wanted my children home with me, spending Christmas with me. That’s what I wanted most in the world. And as much as it was nice; wonderful, even, to think about sharing my life with Isaac , all I could focus on was the absence of my children.
I just wanted my kids home.
All that work I’d put into detaching emotionally from Christmas this year, deciding I wasn’t decorating, planning not to celebrate. It had all been for nothing. The walls I’d built had crumbled the moment Marcy asked me to help with the charity. And now I felt sad again. Felt the accumulated heartbreak of all the Christmases from the last few years, the layered disappointments, the repeated loneliness.
I wasn’t going to see my kids for Christmas. They had their own lives; which I was proud of them for, genuinely proud. They were building wonderful lives, doing incredible things, becoming the people they were meant to be. But they weren’t close to home anymore. It was always so difficult to coordinate seeing them. No one seemed to have time. It was sad. That was the only word for it. Just… sad.
I went to bed feeling sad, and tossed and turned until finally, mercifully, exhaustion pulled me under into restless sleep.
On Tuesday, I arrived at work feeling downtrodden. The lack of sleep was evident in my face. I could see it in the bathroom mirror, the dark circles under my eyes, the particular pallor that comes from crying yourself to sleep. Marcy spotted it immediately. She had an uncanny ability to read people’s emotional states at a glance.
She appeared at my desk, without preamble, and handed me a candy cane. Just offered it silently, a small gesture of comfort.
“Are you all ready for tonight?” she asked gently.
I’d told her earlier in the week that while I’d intended to make a proper dish for the potluck, I was actually going to buy prepared roasted potatoes and green beans from Murphy’s. A couple of other volunteers were bringing meat dishes, and I’d signed up to bring sides.
“I feel a little guilty about buying instead of making,” I admitted.
Marcy laughed, kind and understanding. “I know it’s so hard. Time just gets away from us, doesn’t it?” She paused, then added conspiratorially, “You probably won’t be the only one showing up with store-bought contributions. Life is busy. We do what we can.”
I chuckled a little, but the reality was that cooking didn’t have the same joy in it for me anymore. I used to love it, when the kids were little, or even when I first began cooking for myself after the divorce. I’d loved trying new recipes, experimenting with flavors, presenting meals like they were works of art. But when you’ve spent years cooking just for yourself, you get out of the habit of making these bigger, elaborate dishes. It’s just not as fun when there’s no one to share it with, no one to say “This is delicious” or ask for seconds.
I actually managed to get a fair bit of work done that day, which surprised me. Maybe the distraction helped. It was good to be caught up, to have everything organized before the holidays.
Mid-afternoon, I reached out to Isaac via text: ‘How did Christmas with Sebastian go?‘
His reply came quickly: ‘😔‘
Then: ‘It was great to see him. But it’s so quick. He’s headed to his mom’s, then straight to the ski trip with friends. Gone again.‘
I understood completely. That particular grief of loving someone who’s always leaving. I messaged back: ‘I’m with you. Feeling the same about my kids. I think the only thing I want for Christmas is to see them.‘
He sent back a heart emoji, then: ‘See you tonight. I’m bringing ham. And I bought way too many gifts for the kids, my trunk is full.‘
I smiled despite my melancholy. Isaac ’s generosity knew no bounds.
After work, Isaac picked me up. It was becoming routine now, him driving when we went to charity events. We’d both always been protective of our vehicles, liking the independence and freedom they represented. But he was good about letting me control the music, so I didn’t mind being a passenger.
When he pulled up, I could immediately see his car was packed. Completely full, gifts stacked carefully, wrapping paper rolls wedged into every available space. As I climbed in, a distinctive smell hit me. “I can smell the ham,” I said, looking around. “But I don’t see it.”
Isaac laughed. “Oh, it’s under there. Tucked away nice and safe under that blanket so it stays warm.”
I started laughing too. “You know what? Some of these gifts are going to smell like ham when the kids open them on Christmas Eve.”
“Christmas ham-scented presents,” Isaac deadpanned. “I’m starting a new tradition.”
We were both giggling as we pulled into the parking lot at the community hall.
Other cars were arriving simultaneously, and every single vehicle looked impossibly full. It took several trips for all of us to carry everything inside; volunteers forming human chains, passing boxes from car to door, everyone pitching in.
The cold air bit at exposed skin, our breath creating clouds, but the work warmed us up quickly.
Marcy was inside, naturally, organizing where to put everything. She’d created designated areas with labels: YOUNGER CHILDREN, OLDER CHILDREN, FAMILY GIFTS. Color-coded tags, lists cross-referenced, every detail thought through.
The game plan was clear: some volunteers would organize all the gifts, adding name tags to ensure every child had something. We needed to confirm, absolutely, positively confirm, that we’d purchased everything. No last-minute emergency runs to stores.
We laid wrapping paper on each of the tables, making sure we had enough supplies. A few volunteers with particularly neat handwriting were assigned to tag duty. Others started sorting gifts by category and age group.
Christmas music played through the hall’s sound system; a mix of classics and newer songs, volume up just loud enough to create energy without overpowering conversation.
Then Marcy gave the signal: “Okay, everyone! Time to eat! Food line forms here, and don’t be shy, people brought amazing things!”
The spread was incredible. I’d worried my store-bought roasted potatoes and green beans would look sad next to homemade offerings, but I needn’t have. About a third of the dishes were clearly from restaurants or grocery store delis, and no one cared.
There was homemade lasagna sitting next to store-bought fried chicken. Elaborate homemade salads next to simple dinner rolls from the bakery section. Isaac ’s impressive ham anchored one table, he’d actually cooked it himself, glazed and garnished and looking professional. And that entire table dedicated to desserts. Multiple pies, cookies, brownies, what looked like homemade fudge. Isaac made a beeline for it, loading his plate enthusiastically.
I grabbed a plate and filled it with reasonable portions; some of the lasagna, Isaac ’s ham (which smelled amazing), my own green beans (which looked fine, actually), and some of the pasta salad that someone had decorated to look festive with red and green peppers.
I found a seat at one of the long tables. Isaac sat to my right, and we settled in to eat. It was the first time many of us had really talked to each other beyond logistics and pleasantries. Everything had been so focused on the kids during events that we’d barely gotten to know each other as people.
Now, conversation flowed easily. I learned that the woman across from me, Patricia, was a retired teacher who’d been volunteering with this charity for fifteen years. She told wonderful stories about past Christmas events, kids she still kept in touch with, families whose lives had been genuinely changed by this work.
“It’s not just about the gifts,” Patricia said, her eyes warm with memory. “It’s about showing these families they’re not forgotten. That their community sees them and cares about them. That matters more than any present.”
The man next to her, David, owned a local hardware store and donated supplies every year; batteries, flashlights, tools, practical items that families needed but couldn’t always afford.
“My father was unemployed one Christmas when I was a kid,” he told us. “A charity like this helped us. I never forgot it. Now I get to be on the other side of that. Gets to give back.”
Everyone was chatting, sharing stories, laughing. The energy was warm and genuine. This sense of community, of shared purpose, of knowing we were all part of something good.
Isaac was engaged in an animated conversation with someone to his right. I was half-listening to Patricia tell another story when I heard him laugh; that particular laugh he has when he’s really enjoying himself.
A woman’s laugh joined his, and curiosity made me lean forward to see who he was talking to. She was attractive; probably my age, maybe slightly younger. Dark hair falling in soft waves, warm expressive eyes, well-dressed even in casual clothes. She had her hand on Isaac ’s arm as they shared whatever joke had made them both laugh, her fingers lingering on his sleeve.
The gesture looked casual, friendly. But something about it made my stomach clench.
I realized with sudden, uncomfortable clarity: I hadn’t been paying attention. I’d been so focused on the kids, on my own emotional turmoil, on maintaining friendship with Isaac while avoiding the deeper questions, that I hadn’t noticed what else might be happening around us. This woman was flirting with Isaac. Obviously flirting.
And I’d been putting him off for weeks. Months, really. Asking him to wait, telling him I wasn’t ready, that I needed time. Kissing him and then running away. Sending mixed signals like they were my job. But he wasn’t mine to put off. There were other people interested in him, this woman clearly among them. Just as there were probably people interested in me that I was completely oblivious to because I wasn’t paying attention to that sort of thing.
The difference was, Isaac had made his intentions clear. He was ready for something more, ready to find someone to share his life with. And if it wasn’t going to be me, well… I guess that left it open for people like this woman sitting beside him at our potluck dinner. I felt a brief, hot flash of anger and jealousy toward her. Which was completely unfair; she hadn’t done anything wrong. She was just a woman talking to an attractive, kind, funny man who happened to be single. The jealousy faded quickly, replaced by sadness. A hollow, aching sadness.
Isaac might move on. Maybe he should move on. Maybe he should find someone who laughed at his jokes like that, who touched his arm so easily, who was ready for what he wanted.
Someone who wasn’t so broken by past Christmases and absent children and fear of losing herself again. I guess my energy had visibly changed, because Isaac looked over and caught my expression.
“You all right?” His voice was full of concern, his attention immediately and completely on me.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I forced a smile that probably didn’t reach my eyes. “I’m just a little sad, I guess. It’s all coming to an end.”
“Well, not quite yet,” he said gently. “We still have tomorrow. Christmas Eve. The big event.”
“I know. It’s just… it’s all of it, you know?” I struggled to articulate the tangle of emotions. “Doing these things has been so much fun. Seeing the kids has been amazing. But we’ve also been spending a lot more time together because of this, and you’re going to have other obligations and things to do.”
I couldn’t help but glance at the woman on his other side. She’d turned away now, talking to someone else, but the image of her hand on his arm lingered. Isaac followed my glance and seemed to understand. He reached over and squeezed my hand; firmly, meaningfully, a gesture of reassurance and connection. We didn’t continue that conversation. The moment passed. But something had been acknowledged, even if unspoken.
The night carried on. We had fun; genuine, uncomplicated fun. Christmas music played the whole time. People chatted and laughed, sharing stories and cookies and the particular warmth that comes from shared purpose.
We got all the gifts wrapped and organized with impressive efficiency. Mountains of presents sorted into neat sections, each one tagged with a child’s name or family designation. The hall looked like Santa’s workshop transplanted to small-town Ontario.
They’d planned for a magician to come tomorrow to entertain the kids while Santa got ready. I was really hoping it would be a good magician. That was one of those things that could go either way; either truly mystifying or requiring polite applause while everyone internally cringed. But all in all, everything was in place. Christmas Eve was set to be a wonderful event. The culmination of weeks of work, planning, hoping.
Isaac drove me home after the potluck. At first we were joking around; easy banter, comfortable laughter, the kind of interaction that comes from deep friendship. But once we were in the car and quiet for a moment, the energy shifted.
“So what’s really going on with you?” Isaac asked, his voice gentle but direct. “You’ve been really up and down lately.”
I sighed. “I know. And I understand it’s not just me going through this. You’ve got your own stuff to deal with. It was great that you got to see Sebastian, but now you’re sad because he’s gone again.”
“You’re right. I am sad.” He kept his eyes on the road, hands at ten and two. “It was amazing to see him. And it is just this challenging time; the kids are getting themselves established, figuring out their lives. It’s hard to get everyone together.”
He paused, then continued, “But eventually, they’ll have their lives carved out. They’ll know better what’s going on, be able to make better plans in advance to spend time together. Our kids just have a lot going on right now.”
“I know,” I said softly. “I really thought I was going to ignore Christmas this year. I didn’t want to deal with any of this. It had hurt me so much each year that I just didn’t feel like I had it in me.”
I stared out the window at the passing houses, many still decorated with lights. “But Marcy approaching me about this charity was incredible. It was exactly what I needed. I’m so grateful I got to participate, meet these kids, spend this time with everyone. With you.”
“But?” Isaac prompted gently.
“But with that high also comes the low of knowing it all wraps up. And the thing that was difficult to begin with, not seeing my kids, is still there. It’s just hard. Makes me sad.”
As he drove, Isaac reached over and took my hand. The gesture was simple but grounding.
“You know, Daniella,” he said quietly, “you don’t have to be alone.”
The words hung in the air between us, weighted with all the unspoken implications. I didn’t know how to respond.
“I appreciate that,” I finally said, the words coming out more formal than I’d intended. “Thank you.”
I took a breath, trying to be more honest. “It’s nice to think about spending my life with someone.”
“Someone?” Isaac ’s voice held a question, maybe hurt.
“You know what I mean,” I said, flustered. “I can’t… I don’t know what to say about that right now. But I do understand how nice it would be to share my life. With you, Isaac. That would be wonderful.”
I paused, then continued with brutal honesty: “But honestly, right now, all I can think about is my kids. I just miss them so much.”
Isaac sighed; a sound that seemed to come from deep inside him. “I know. I know.”
He was quiet for a moment, then: “Let’s get through the holidays. And then we can talk. Really talk.”
“Oh yeah, that’s another thing,” I said, almost laughing despite everything. “It’s not just Christmas. We still have New Year’s.”
Isaac laughed too, the tension breaking slightly. “Don’t worry. You always have a date with me for New Year’s.”
“That’s true,” I agreed. It was nice that we typically spent New Year’s together; our tradition when neither of us had romantic partners to kiss at midnight.
When we got to my house, Isaac walked me to my door. He gave me a huge hug, and I hugged him back. Not desperately, not clinging, but holding on. Accepting the comfort being offered. It was so nice to be hugged, to give hugs. I needed more of this in my life. Needed this physical connection, this tangible demonstration of care. It had been so long since I’d had regular hugs, since touch had been part of my daily experience. And it felt really great.
We probably stood there for several minutes, neither of us wanting to let go first, both of us needing the connection. Finally, Isaac pulled away and looked down at me with a somewhat sympathetic smile. I did my best to smile back, but I was feeling fragile, uncertain.
He kissed me on the forehead, a gesture of affection that didn’t demand anything, didn’t push for more than I was ready to give. And in that moment, I was really grateful to have a friend like him. Someone I was so comfortable with, who cared about me, who genuinely wanted my happiness above his own needs.
It’s not all that common anymore, that kind of friendship. A lot of times when you see friends and they ask how you’re doing, you just say “fine” because anything else is too complicated, too much work, too risky. And if you don’t say fine, if you actually tell them something that’s not going perfectly in your life, they get awkward. Or they redirect it to themselves, treating your vulnerability as an invitation to tell you everything wrong in their own life. So you end up listening, offering feedback and suggestions to them, and you feel ignored all over again.
But if you’ve ever felt ignored when you needed support, you probably put extra effort into others. When people tell you something’s wrong, you check in for days or weeks after, seeing how they’re doing, asking if there’s anything you can help with.
For me, the one person who consistently did that was Isaac.
And the thought of getting together with him romantically, of us having everything we wanted, building a life together, was wonderful in theory. But if it didn’t go well, I could lose this friendship. Lose this person who showed up with coffee and took me skating and wrapped presents and made everything better just by being present.
The reality was: if we got together and it didn’t work out, I could lose the friendship. But if we didn’t get together and he found someone else. Someone like that woman at the potluck who touched his arm and laughed at his jokes. We could still lose the friendship. Because who would tolerate their partner being friends like this with another woman? What reasonable person would accept that level of intimacy and connection with someone who wasn’t their partner?
That thought scared me. Because I loved Isaac. Really, truly loved him. And I couldn’t imagine not having him in my life. I just didn’t know what to do about it.























CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Christmas Eve Morning


The next morning, I woke up excited. Genuinely, childishly excited in a way I hadn’t felt in years. I felt like a kid on Christmas morning, that electric anticipation humming through my entire body. It didn’t even bother me that I had to go into work first. Usually, working on Christmas Eve would feel like an imposition, a cruel obstacle between me and whatever plans I had. But today, knowing what was waiting this evening, I practically bounced out of bed.
I got ready quickly, made coffee at home; extra strong, knowing I’d need the energy, and headed into the office. The streets were quieter than usual, many people already off for the holiday, but the ones who remained had that particular Christmas Eve energy. Everyone was smiling, waving at each other, united in the knowledge that something magical was just hours away.
When Marcy arrived at the office, she was in rare form; moving through the cubicles like a one-woman Christmas parade, wearing an elaborate holiday sweater covered in actual battery-powered lights, passing out candy canes to everyone she encountered. She came over to my desk and leaned against it, her eyes sparkling with excitement.
“I can’t believe today’s the big day already,” she said, shaking her head. “Can you believe it? After all these weeks of planning, it’s finally here.”
“Yes, and I’m more than ready,” I replied, unable to contain my smile. “I’ve been really looking forward to this. I can’t wait to see the kids’ faces when they get their gifts. When they realize that people care about them, that they matter.”
“It’s going to be magical,” Marcy agreed, her voice thick with emotion. “The kind of thing these children will remember for the rest of their lives.”
She was right. This wasn’t just about presents. It was about showing these families that their community saw them, valued them, wanted them to have joy.
The morning at work dragged by excruciatingly slowly. Minutes felt like hours. I kept checking the clock, willing time to move faster, but it refused to cooperate.
I tried to focus on work, answering emails, finishing reports, tying up loose ends before the holiday break. But my mind kept drifting to the evening ahead. To the children’s faces. To the moment when Santa would appear. To everything we’d worked so hard to create.
Finally, finally, the workday ended. I practically ran to my car.
I messaged Isaac : ‘On my way to the hall to help set up. See you soon?‘
His reply came quickly: ‘Have a couple things to finish up, then I’ll head over. Can’t wait to see this all come together.‘
When I arrived at the community hall, other volunteers were just starting to show up as well. Cars pulling in, people emerging with arms full of supplies, everyone moving with purpose and excitement.
Inside, we prepared all the finishing touches with the precision of a military operation. We made sure all the food was arranged for dinner; warming trays set up, serving utensils in place, everything organized and ready. All the presents were carefully arranged under and around the massive tree, sorted by family, tagged with names, a mountain of wrapped gifts that represented weeks of effort and care.
We had our list of how the gifts would be dispersed. Who would call names, who would hand out presents, how we’d manage the flow to avoid chaos. Every volunteer had a role, and everyone knew their part.
Christmas music played through the sound system; a carefully curated playlist that moved from upbeat classics to more reverent carols and back again, setting the perfect mood.
We had cookies and snacks laid out for people to munch on before dinner. Everything was ready. Everything was perfect.
Santa was in the back room, getting into character, waiting for his grand entrance. I’d peeked in earlier and seen him adjusting his beard, practicing his “Ho ho ho,” completely committed to making this magical for the children. It was going to be a wonderful, wonderful event.
As the families started to arrive, you could feel the energy in the room shift. Transform into something electric and joyful. The children were so excited they were vibrating, bouncing on their toes, unable to stand still.
The families had brought all their children; not just the ones registered with the charity, but everyone. Teenagers trying to act too cool but secretly excited. Toddlers wide-eyed at all the decorations. Babies in parents’ arms, taking in the lights and sounds. It was a packed house; fuller than we’d expected, which meant our decision to buy gifts for siblings had been exactly right. No one would be left out of today’s experience.
The kids rushed in and immediately sought out their favorite volunteers. Timmy ran over and gave me a great big hug, lifting his feet off the ground in his enthusiasm, nearly knocking me over.
“Is Santa really coming?” he asked breathlessly. “Is he really really coming here?”
“He really really is,” I assured him, laughing at his excitement.
Little Suzie came over wearing a beautiful red velvet dress with white fur trim; clearly her Christmas best. She did a little twirl to show it off.
“Do you like my dress, Miss Daniella? My mom said I had to save it for something really special. And this is really special, right?”
“This is very special, honey. And you look absolutely beautiful.”
All of the kids were dressed so nicely today. You could see the care their families had taken, wanting their children to look their best for this event. It made everything feel even more significant.
Everybody was asking when Santa was coming, their voices overlapping in excitement. The anticipation was building to almost unbearable levels. I was excited for them too. After all the work, all the planning, seeing their genuine joy made every moment worth it.
We got the festivities started with games to burn off some of that excited energy. We had a game where everyone had a balloon tied to their ankle, and whoever managed to keep theirs intact the longest won a prize. The sound of popping balloons and shrieking laughter filled the hall.
We played Pictionary with teams so large that people were practically climbing over each other to see the drawings. The competitive energy was hilarious; kids and adults alike taking it very seriously, arguing good-naturedly about whether a particular scribble could reasonably be interpreted as “snowman.”
Everyone who won any game received a Christmas ornament as a prize. We tried to make sure we had enough games running that everybody won at least once. No one left empty-handed.
We had coloring stations set up with Christmas-themed pages that the kids could take home with them. Some of the younger children spent most of their time there, carefully selecting exactly the right colors, creating masterpieces to hang on refrigerators. It was shaping up to be everything we’d hoped for.
The meal came out around four o’clock. All the volunteers helped serve the food, making sure everything ran smoothly; filling plates for the smallest children, helping the kids navigate the buffet line, ensuring everyone got exactly what they wanted.
The spread was impressive: turkey and ham, mashed potatoes and gravy, vegetables, rolls, multiple salads, and of course, that entire dessert table that kept growing as people added their contributions.
Some of the kids gobbled their dinners up very quickly, too excited to take their time, eager to get to whatever was coming next. Others savored every bite, perhaps not accustomed to such abundant meals. Parents lingered over their food, chatting with each other and with volunteers, this sense of community building right before our eyes.
As dinner was wrapping up and we were serving cake and various desserts, the lights dimmed dramatically. A hush fell over the room.
Then, from the back, music began, mysterious, magical music that built anticipation.
The kids’ eyes went wide. “Is it Santa?” someone whispered loudly. But instead, a figure emerged from behind the curtain wearing a sparkling cape and top hat. The magician.
At first, I could see disappointment on some faces; they’d been expecting Santa. But that quickly passed as the magician performed his first trick, making a bouquet of flowers appear from thin air and presenting them to a little girl in the front row.
He was actually quite good, really good, not just going-through-the-motions good. He did some remarkable sleight of hand that caught everyone by surprise. Cards appearing and disappearing, coins pulled from behind children’s ears, scarves that seemed to multiply endlessly.
His grand finale involved making it “snow” inside the hall, small pieces of white paper that swirled down from above while Christmas music swelled. The children reached up to catch the “snowflakes,” delighted.
We all enjoyed watching him, adults as charmed as the children.
When he was done, he gave little gifts to all the kids; small magic wands with stars on top that lit up when you waved them. They were adorable, a nice little touch.
Given that it was Christmas Eve, I thought it was wonderful that he’d brought something for everybody. I wasn’t even sure where he’d gotten such things, but they were perfect souvenirs. The children immediately started waving them around, creating patterns of light, casting “spells” on each other and giggling.
Then it was time.
The moment everything had been building toward. It was time for Santa’s gifts.
We helped organize the kids so they were all sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the stage, youngest in front, older children behind so everyone could see. The teenagers hung back, trying to act casual but clearly interested. The stage had been transformed. Santa’s chair was positioned in the center; a grand, throne-like red velvet chair. The enormous tree stood to one side, its branches heavy with ornaments. Big boxes wrapped as gifts decorated the stage, creating a workshop atmosphere.
Lights were everywhere; twinkling, shimmering, creating magic.
Everyone had really done a great job.
Marcy got on stage, and the room gradually quieted as she raised her hands.
“Good evening, everyone!” Her voice carried warmth and joy. “What an incredible night this has been. I want to start by thanking all of our amazing volunteers for everything they’ve done. The hours of planning, the shopping, the wrapping, the organizing. This doesn’t happen without all of you.”
Applause rippled through the room.
“And I want to thank you children for being so wonderful, for your participation, for your beautiful singing and your joy. You’ve helped us all remember what Christmas is really about.”
She paused, scanning the eager faces before her. “We’ve all helped each other create wonderful memories this Christmas. Memories that will last a lifetime.”
She was right. This had been such a special Christmas for everyone, volunteers and families alike. I was so glad Marcy had asked me to help with this. So grateful I’d been able to spend time with these kids, to relive that joyful excitement that Christmas holds for children. It had been too many years since I’d experienced that magic. This was a blessing for me, getting to participate in creating it for others.
“And now,” Marcy said, her voice building dramatically, “I think I hear something…”
Everyone held their breath. From somewhere behind the stage came the sound of bells jingling; clear and bright, unmistakably the sound of sleigh bells.
All the kids looked around, eyes wide, mouths open. More jingling. Then the sound of something heavy being dragged. Footsteps.
And then… there he was.
Santa Claus in all his red velvet glory, dragging an enormous sack behind him, coming through the side door onto the stage.
“HO HO HO!” His voice boomed through the hall. “MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE!”
The response was immediate and overwhelming. Children shrieked with joy, jumping up and down, waving frantically, calling out “Santa! Santa!”
Some of the youngest children looked stunned, almost overwhelmed by the reality of Santa Claus standing right in front of them. One little girl burst into tears, happy tears, and buried her face in her mother’s lap.
Santa made his way to his chair and sat down with appropriate ceremony, adjusting his coat, smoothing his beard.
“Well, well, well,” he said, his eyes twinkling as he surveyed the children. “What do we have here? Have all of you been good this year?”
“YES!” The response was deafening.
“That’s wonderful to hear! Because I have some very special gifts here for some very special children.” He pulled out a list, an impressively long scroll that unrolled dramatically, and made a show of studying it.
What happened next was remarkable: he’d memorized all the children’s names. Including the siblings who weren’t officially registered with the charity. As he began calling names, children would gasp in surprise that Santa knew who they were, that they were personally on his list.
“Timmy Henderson!”
Timmy scrambled to his feet and practically ran to the stage, his face glowing with joy.
Some of the gifts were handed directly from Santa’s sack. Others were retrieved from under the tree by “elves”, volunteers who’d willingly dressed in elvish costumes for the occasion.
Green and red vests with jingle bells attached. Pointed hats with bells on the tips. Some even wore prosthetic elf ears. Everyone was fully committed to the performance.
It was so much fun watching the volunteers embrace their roles; making exaggerated tiptoeing movements, whispering conspiratorially with Santa, pretending to check the “naughty or nice” list with grave seriousness. Everyone was having a great time.
I watched Timmy approach Santa and receive his gift. He clutched it to his chest like it was the most precious thing in the world, gave Santa the biggest hug, nearly climbing into his lap, and thanked him profusely before running back to his spot. But then something unexpected happened. Instead of tearing into his present immediately like most of the other kids were doing, Timmy sat down beside his little sister and just… held it.
His fingers traced over the wrapped package slowly, reverently. He stared at it for quite a long time before opening it. To my surprise, most of the kids had ripped their gifts open the instant they got them, unable to contain their excitement. But Timmy seemed to want to savor this moment.
I wondered if it was because he didn’t often get gifts, if this was a rarity he wanted to make last. Or if he somehow knew this event was ending, and once the presents were open, the magic would be over. I wasn’t sure exactly what he was thinking, but I understood. I was having a lot of mixed emotions myself over the whole thing, knowing this beautiful experience was coming to its conclusion.
When Timmy finally opened his gift, his reaction was everything you could hope for. It was a Transformer, one of the elaborate ones that had multiple transformation options. His eyes bulged. His mouth dropped open in a perfect O of shock. He froze for a moment in absolute disbelief and joy.
Then he let out a whoop and immediately started trying to transform it, his sister leaning over to watch, both of them absorbed in figuring out how it worked. I was so happy for him.
His sister had been given a doll dressed like a cowgirl, all fringe and tiny boots. She seemed very pleased with it, cradling it carefully, already whispering to it.
Everyone was so happy with their gifts. It was quite the experience; this collective joy, this room full of gratitude and excitement and Christmas magic made real.
Volunteers rushed around trying to collect discarded wrapping paper as it was thrown aside, trying to keep the chaos manageable. Kids excitedly showed their parents what Santa had brought them, holding up their treasures, pointing out features, already making plans for how they’d play with them.
Santa and his elves stayed for a while, watching all the excitement, soaking in the joy they’d helped create.
As the excitement gradually started to wane, you could see children getting tired. There had been so much stimulation, so much emotion packed into this day. The adrenaline was wearing off, and exhaustion was settling in.
Little ones were rubbing their eyes. Some of the babies had fallen asleep in parents’ arms despite all the noise. Even the teenagers who’d been trying to act too cool for this were looking worn out.
We were all feeling it. We had all put so much work into this event, weeks of planning, shopping, organizing, preparing. The emotional investment had been enormous. But I was so happy to have been able to participate in this. This was what Christmas was supposed to be about; creating joy for others, building community, showing people they mattered.
As families gathered their things, colorings and Christmas ornaments and gifts and magic wands, Isaac came over and put his arm around my shoulder.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there watching the kids leaving, this comfortable silence between us. I knew he’d really enjoyed this as well. He missed all the Christmases when his son was little, just as I missed those times with my own children. This had been a way to recapture that magic, to be part of childhood wonder again.
As the kids put their coats on and started to leave, they said goodbye to the volunteers. Many came for hugs, for one last interaction before returning to regular life. Parents came and shook our hands, thanking us profusely for everything we’d done, their smiles warm with gratitude.
“You have no idea what this means to us,” one mother said, gripping my hand tightly. “My kids are going to remember this forever. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
I thanked them too. Thanked them for participating, for allowing us to be part of their Christmas. It had been a really great experience for all of us.
Timmy gave me a great big hug that lasted a long time. I felt like he might cry. I felt like I might cry too.
“I’m going to miss you, Miss Daniella,” he said into my shoulder.
“I’m going to miss you too, honey. But you have such good things ahead of you. Keep being kind to your sister, okay?”
“I will. I promise.”
He was such a good kid. I really hoped things would continue to improve for him and his family, that they’d all be well. Suzie came and gave me a hug, her velvet dress swishing. “Thank you for everything. You’re the best volunteer ever.”
Several of the other kids echoed similar sentiments. But there were a few who I knew would stick out in my mind for years to come, Timmy, Suzie, Marcus, Emma. Children who’d touched my heart in particular ways.
Once everyone had left, all the volunteers gathered together. Someone produced bottles of wine and plastic cups, and we toasted our collective effort.
“To everyone here,” Marcy said, raising her cup. “To the magic we created together. To making Christmas matter.”
“To Christmas!” we all echoed, clinking our plastic cups together.
We sat down amidst the chaos we still had to clean up; wrapping paper everywhere, dishes to be washed, decorations to be taken down. And just shared stories about the day. Funny moments we’d witnessed. Touching interactions. The look on particular children’s faces. It was a really nice moment of collective reflection, savoring what we’d accomplished.
After finishing our wine, we split into teams and tackled different aspects of the cleanup. Some people handled recycling, enormous bags of wrapping paper. Others packed up leftover food. There was dish duty. Floor cleaning. All the little odds and ends that come with hosting a major event.
The leftover food was being taken to a food bank, which was such a good idea. Making sure nothing went to waste, extending the generosity beyond just tonight. There had been a group managing the distribution of food packages to families throughout the evening, and all of that had gone smoothly as well.
We managed to get the whole process broken down and cleaned up in about 45 minutes, which really wasn’t bad considering the scale of what we’d just done.
It was 6:30 by the time we finished, though it genuinely felt so much later. It had been a very emotional, exciting, full day.

















CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Greatest Gift


Once everything was cleaned up and we’d said our goodbyes to the other volunteers, Isaac approached me with a particular expression on his face; part excitement, part nervousness.
“I have a surprise for you,” he said.
“Another surprise?” I laughed. “Haven’t we had enough excitement for one day?”
“Just one more. Please?” He looked almost boyish in his eagerness. “Can I drive you home? Or rather, can I take you somewhere?”
I glanced at my car in the parking lot. “I have my car here. I don’t really want to leave it overnight.”
“That’s fine. We can drop it at your place first, and then I’ll drive you.”
I was feeling quite tired after such a full day, and honestly wasn’t sure I wanted to go anywhere except home to collapse. But something in his expression made me curious.
“Okay,” I agreed. “But this better be worth it.” I said with a smile.
“I promise it will be.”
We drove to my house in separate cars. I pulled into my driveway, and Isaac parked behind me. Before getting into his truck, I had a thought.
“Hold on a second,” I said. “I want to grab your Christmas gifts. Since it’s Christmas Eve, I want you to have them for tomorrow morning.”
I ran into the house and retrieved the presents I’d carefully wrapped. The main gift was something I’d spent weeks creating; a scrapbook of all our adventures together.
I’d gathered photos from every outing we’d had; dinners at Murphy’s, concerts we’d attended, plays we’d seen, even just random afternoons spent together. I’d written little captions and stories beside each photo, funny anecdotes and meaningful moments. I’d included ticket stubs, napkins from restaurants with inside jokes written on them, all the ephemera of our friendship.
I’d bound it all in a beautiful leather book and titled it “Our Adventures.”
I wanted something that demonstrated how much I appreciated the time we’d spent together, the role he played in my life. How he’d made ordinary moments extraordinary just by being there. I’d also included a silly additional gift; a custom bobblehead of his dog Toby. It was ridiculous and kitschy, and I knew he’d either love it or laugh at how absurd it was. Either reaction would be perfect.
I came back out with the gifts and handed them to Isaac. He looked confused.
“It’s Christmas Eve,” I explained. “I want you to be able to open these tomorrow morning. Have something under your tree.”
“Should I open them now?” he asked, clearly tempted.
“Not yet. Maybe later. Save something for tomorrow.”
He smiled and carefully set them in his truck. “Okay. Thank you. Now come on, we need to get going.”
“Where are we going?” I asked as I climbed into the passenger seat.
“Do you trust me?”
“I thought I did until you just asked that question,” I replied, and he laughed.
“Come on, you know you trust me.”
I considered for a moment. “Okay, I do. Why do I need to trust you?”
He pulled something from behind his seat, a soft cloth, like a scarf. “Well, I’m going to blindfold you.”
That was the last thing I expected him to say. “What? Why?”
“Because I want this to be a complete surprise. Please? Just trust me.”
I looked at him, at his earnest expression, his obvious excitement, and found myself agreeing. “Okay, but this better be good.”
He gently tied the blindfold around my eyes, making sure it wasn’t too tight but that I genuinely couldn’t see. Then he helped me settle into my seat, buckled my seatbelt for me, and started driving. We drove for quite a while. Long enough that I started to get restless.
“Do I really need to be blindfolded if we’re driving this far away to begin with?” I asked. “I won’t know where we are anyway.”
“Just trust me,” he said again. “Just relax. I promise this will be worth it.”
His hand found mine and squeezed gently. “I want to make sure you have a wonderful Christmas. I understand how hard it is for you not to see your kids. I wanted to do something special.”
Something in his voice made my throat tight with emotion.
“I loved being with all the kids at the event tonight,” I said quietly. “But it did make me sad too. As incredibly happy as it is to see children experiencing Christmas that way, it reminded me of so many happy memories with my own kids. And it made me miss them.”
I paused, trying to articulate the complexity of it. “It made my heart ache so deeply from missing them. And it’s incredible how you can feel happy and sad and experience such a range of emotions all simultaneously. How you can be grateful and heartbroken at the same time.”
Isaac squeezed my hand again, offering silent comfort. I could tell from the sound that we’d transitioned from paved roads to something less maintained. The crunch of snow under tires was loud in the quiet evening. We were definitely not in the city anymore; somewhere rural, somewhere remote.
The truck slowed to a crawl, Isaac navigating carefully. Finally, we came to a stop.
There was a long pause. Then Isaac spoke softly: “Just wait there. I’m going to help you out.”
I heard his door open and close, his footsteps crunching around the truck. Then my door opened, and cold air rushed in, along with the scent of pine and wood smoke. He helped me out carefully, keeping a steadying hand on my arm. It felt very strange to exit a vehicle without being able to see, disorienting, making me hyper-aware of every sound and sensation.
The cold air on my face. The snow crunching under my feet. The absolute darkness of the blindfold. The sense that I’d arrived somewhere significant without having any idea where I was.
Isaac ’s hands were gentle as he untied the blindfold. “Okay. Open your eyes.”
I blinked against the darkness, letting my eyes adjust. And there, in front of me, stood my cottage. Not just any cottage, but a perfect replica of the little ceramic cottage that sat on my bedside table. The one I’d told Isaac represented everything Christmas meant to me.
It was almost identical in every detail: the snow-covered roof, the warm glow from the windows, the cobblestone chimney, the welcoming front door. Even the proportions were right; small and cozy, the kind of place where you could imagine a family gathered inside, safe from the cold, sharing stories and laughter and love.
I was blown away. Completely speechless.
I looked at Isaac , then back at the cottage, then at Isaac again. “What… what is this? What are we doing here?”
His smile was warm, almost shy. “You told me that cottage was what Christmas meant to you. The idea of family inside, warm and together, opening gifts and having dinner. And I thought… this is the perfect place to spend Christmas Eve.”
“But… I don’t understand. How did you find this place?” I looked at the cottage again, unable to process that this was real, that I was standing in front of an actual, full-size version of my little statue.
“I spent a lot of time searching,” Isaac admitted. “Looking at rental properties, driving around the countryside. When I found this place, I knew immediately it was right. It looks just like your cottage, doesn’t it?”
“It’s perfect,” I whispered. “But what do you mean, spend Christmas Eve here? I don’t have anything packed…”
I felt a flutter of panic mixed with confusion. Did he mean both of us? Was this… what did this mean?
Isaac must have seen the alarm in my expression because he squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry. Don’t panic. Just wait until you see. Come on, let’s go inside before you freeze.”
My mind was racing as we approached the door. I didn’t know what to expect, what this meant, if I was ready for whatever was about to happen.
Isaac opened the door.
And I heard, all at once, in a chorus of voices I’d recognize anywhere, all four of my children simultaneously yell: “MERRY CHRISTMAS, MOM!”
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t process what I was seeing.
All of my kids were there. All four of them. James and Vanessa and Craig and Mike. Standing in the living room of this perfect little cottage, beaming at me, arms open for hugs. And behind them, the cottage was decorated for Christmas. A tree in the corner, covered in ornaments and lights. Garlands on the mantel. The smell of cookies baking. Christmas music playing softly.
It was Christmas, real Christmas, the kind I’d been mourning, the kind I thought I’d lost forever, happening right here inside this cottage.
I started to cry. Not delicate tears but full, body-shaking sobs. I was frozen in the doorway, unable to move, just staring at them through tears, my hands covering my mouth. I couldn’t believe it. All my kids. Here. For me. For Christmas.
I looked at Isaac , and his smile was so incredibly warm, so full of love and hope and joy at seeing my reaction.
“Merry Christmas, Daniella,” he said softly. “I hope this gives you all the joy you were hoping for this Christmas.”
“It does,” I managed to say through my tears. “It really, really does.”
I threw my arms around him and hugged him fiercely, trying to communicate without words what this meant, how much he’d given me, how impossible this all seemed.
When I finally released him, Isaac took a step back toward the door. “I hope you have a wonderful time with your kids.”
“No!” I grabbed his arm. “Please don’t go. Come in with us. Please.”
He hesitated. “Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude. I know how much this means to you, being with your kids.”
“I want to be with everybody I love,” I said, holding his gaze. “And this is all thanks to you. I don’t want you to leave. I don’t want you to spend Christmas Eve alone.”
Before he could respond, the kids all rushed to the door and started inviting him in too.
“Isaac , you have to stay!” Vanessa insisted. “It won’t be the same without you.”
“Yeah, man, come on in,” James added. “You’re part of this now.”
They swept both of us up in enthusiasm, pulling us into the living room. Someone pressed a glass of wine into my hand and another into Isaac ’s.We all settled in the living room, me on the couch surrounded by my children, Isaac in an armchair nearby, looking comfortable and happy.
The kids asked all about the Christmas Eve event. I showed them photos and videos on my phone, described the children’s faces, the magic we’d created. They were genuinely interested, asking questions, laughing at the funny stories.
“Mom, this is incredible,” Vanessa said. “I had no idea you were doing something so involved, so meaningful.”
“Me neither,” Craig admitted. “When Isaac reached out to us…”
“Wait, Isaac reached out to you?” I looked over at him. “You coordinated all of this?”
The kids all started talking at once, explaining how Isaac had contacted each of them individually, explained how important Christmas was to me, how much I was missing them. How he’d convinced them to cancel or reschedule their other plans, coordinated everyone’s schedules, arranged this cottage rental, even helped them figure out what to bring.
“We’re so sorry, Mom,” Mike said quietly. “We didn’t realize how much Christmas meant to you. We just thought… I don’t know, we thought you’d be okay. That you understood we had our own things going on.”
“It’s not that we don’t love you,” James added quickly. “We just didn’t think about how it felt from your perspective. And when Isaac laid it all out for us… we felt terrible.”
“We should have known,” Vanessa said, squeezing my hand. “We should have been paying attention. We’re sorry it took Isaac calling us out for us to realize.”
I looked around at all their faces; my children, grown now, but still my babies. “You’re here now. That’s what matters. You’re here.”
Dinner was a collaborative effort, part takeout, part prepared by the kids themselves. They’d coordinated who would bring what, creating a full Christmas Eve feast: roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, vegetables, salads, fresh bread. And for dessert, an impressive array of pies and cookies.
We sat around the table together, and it felt like coming home. Like finding something I’d thought was lost forever. The conversation flowed easily, catching up on their lives, sharing stories, laughing at old memories. Isaac fit right in, the kids treating him like he’d always been part of the family.
“So Isaac ,” Craig said with a mischievous grin, “what are your intentions toward our mother?”
“Craig!” I felt my face flush.
But Isaac just laughed. “Well, I intend to make her as happy as possible for as long as she’ll let me.”
“Good answer,” James said approvingly.
After dinner, we discovered they’d brought stockings for all of us; including one for me, the first I’d had in years. They’d all contributed stocking stuffers, coordinating to make sure there was a good variety of treats and small gifts.
“We couldn’t let you go without a stocking,” Vanessa explained. “Not after all the years you filled ours.”
The gesture made me cry again, these happy tears that kept surprising me throughout the evening. We stayed up late watching Christmas movies, just like we used to when they were little. ‘White Christmas‘, ‘It’s a Wonderful Life‘, ‘Miracle on 34th Street‘, all the classics.
Isaac left around ten o’clock. He still needed to look after Toby, and I suspected he wanted to give me time alone with my children.
At the door, I hugged him again. “Thank you,” I whispered. “For all of this. For everything.”
“Merry Christmas, Daniella.”
After he left, the kids and I stayed up even later, talking and laughing, making up for lost time.
























CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Hope Restored


Christmas morning arrived with pale winter sunlight streaming through the cottage windows. I woke up in an unfamiliar room, momentarily disoriented, before remembering where I was and why.
My children were here. All of them. Under one roof.
The happiness that flooded through me was almost overwhelming. I could hear sounds from downstairs; someone moving around in the kitchen, the faint murmur of voices. The smell of coffee brewing.
I got dressed quickly and headed downstairs to find all four kids already up, working together to prepare breakfast. James was scrambling eggs. Vanessa was making pancakes. Craig was setting the table. Mike was organizing the stockings.
“Merry Christmas, Mom!” they chorused when they saw me.
“Merry Christmas, my loves.”
We gathered in the living room first, sitting around the tree like we used to when they were little. The stockings were distributed, and we took turns opening them, exclaiming over each item, laughing at the silly things and appreciating the thoughtful ones. It was such nostalgia for me, a ritual I’d performed for forty years and then lost. Having it back felt like recovering a piece of myself.
There was a knock at the door around nine. Isaac had returned, bringing fresh pastries from a bakery he’d found open.
“I couldn’t let you have Christmas breakfast without proper Danish,” he said, presenting the box with a flourish.
The kids welcomed him enthusiastically, and we all sat down to eat together. The conversation flowed easily; the kids telling stories about growing up, all the shenanigans we’d gotten into over the years.
Isaac loved hearing these stories, laughing at tales of childhood mischief and teenage drama. He fit so naturally into our family dynamic that it felt like he’d always been there.
“Mom,” Vanessa said at one point, “we really like Isaac. We hope we’re going to see a lot more of him from now on.”
“Yes,” James agreed. “He’s good for you, Mom. Really good.”
“I think that’s very likely,” I said, looking over at Isaac with a smile. “Yes, he’s definitely a good friend of mine. But I could see there being something more.”
The kids exchanged knowing looks and grins.
Eventually, it was time to leave. Bittersweet goodbyes; tearful but also filled with promises to do better, to see each other more often, to not let so much time pass.
“We’re going to coordinate better,” Craig promised. “Actually make plans and stick to them.”
“And maybe do this again next year?” Vanessa suggested. “All of us together somewhere?”
“I would love that,” I said.
We had our family hug, my absolute favorite thing. All four of my kids surrounding me, me in the center, all of us holding on tight.
It was the greatest gift anyone could give me.
They packed up their cars and headed off to their various destinations. I stood in the cold, waving until the last car disappeared down the snowy road.
Isaac drove me back to my house. The ride was quiet at first, both of us processing everything that had happened.
“Thank you,” I said finally. “I don’t even know how to properly thank you for what you did. For giving me that time with my kids. For making it happen.”
“You don’t need to thank me,” Isaac said. “Seeing your face when you walked in and saw them? That was all the thanks I needed.”
When we arrived at my house, he walked me to the door as always. But this time, I invited him in.
“Stay?” I asked. “Come spend the day. We can watch Christmas movies, have some of the leftovers for dinner. Just… be together.”
“Are you sure? You must be exhausted.”
“I am,” I admitted. “But I don’t want to be alone. And I don’t want you to be alone either.”
He smiled. “Okay. I’d like that.”
We worked together in perfect synchronization, not needing to speak. One of us grabbed wine, the other grabbed glasses. One got plates, the other got utensils. We set everything up efficiently, years of friendship making us perfectly attuned to each other.
Isaac turned on the TV and found ‘A Christmas Carol‘, the 1951 version with Alastair Sim.
“Your favorite,” he said. We settled on the couch together, and it felt so comfortable, so natural. I didn’t want to move.
Fortunately, Isaac had dropped Toby off at his parents’ house earlier, so he didn’t need to rush home. Whether that was careful planning or hopeful thinking, I wasn’t sure, but I was grateful.
We ended up spending the entire evening watching old Christmas movies. We made our way through several, ‘White Christmas‘, ‘Holiday Inn‘, ‘The Bishop’s Wife‘. Classic after classic, the familiar stories washing over us.
At some point, we both fell asleep on the couch, the TV still playing softly, lights from the screen flickering across our faces. I woke up during the night to find us cuddled together, Isaac ’s arms wrapped around me, my head on his chest. I could hear his heartbeat, steady and reassuring. For a moment, I felt a flash of worry. We’d never done anything like this before. What did it mean? Where was this going? But then I decided I didn’t want the moment to end, didn’t want to acknowledge I was awake and potentially break the spell. So I stayed still, savoring the warmth, the comfort, the feeling of being held.
It wasn’t long before I felt Isaac stir and wake. He didn’t move away immediately. Instead, he gently petted my hair, hugged me tighter, and kissed my forehead. It was such a sweet and wonderful moment, intimate without being presumptuous, affectionate without demanding anything.
We spent the entire next day together too. The energy between us kept building all day… this anticipation, this awareness that something significant was shifting between us.
We carried on mostly as we normally did, joking together, laughing together, just generally enjoying each other’s company. But you could tell something was different. There was electricity in the air, a tension that wasn’t uncomfortable but was definitely present.
By unspoken agreement, Isaac stayed that night too. And this time, we didn’t sleep on the couch. We crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed. Changed our relationship in fundamental ways. Took the step we’d been circling around for weeks, maybe months.
The next morning, I woke up and he wasn’t there.
Panic hit immediately. ‘Oh no. We made a huge mistake. This just ruined our whole friendship. This ruined everything.‘
‘What was I thinking? Why did I let that happen?‘
I lay in bed, fuming at myself for being so stupid and reckless, for risking the most important friendship in my life for what? Physical attraction? Loneliness?
Then I forced myself to calm down. To just accept it. This was the reality now. It had happened. I hoped there was some way to recover, to salvage our friendship from this.
Just as I’d fully accepted this new reality and was starting to plan how to have an awkward conversation about staying friends, I heard the front door open.
Footsteps on the stairs.
Isaac appeared in the doorway, holding a carrier with two coffees and a bag from the bakery.
“Good morning,” he said cheerfully. “I got us breakfast.”
I started laughing… at myself… at my ridiculous panic… at how quickly I’d abandoned faith in him.
“What’s funny?” he asked, setting down the food and coffee.
“Me. I’m ridiculous. I woke up and you weren’t here and immediately convinced myself you’d left because you regretted everything.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and took my hand. “Never. I don’t regret anything. Do you?”
“No,” I said honestly. “I don’t.”
“Good. Then let’s have breakfast.”
We spent basically the rest of the week together. We went skating at the outdoor rink, gliding across the ice hand in hand. We even went tobogganing, something I hadn’t done in years, laughing like children as we flew down hills, snow spraying everywhere.
We watched endless old movies, worked our way through most of my DVD collection and several streaming services. We cooked together, ate together, existed in comfortable companionship. It felt easy. Natural. Right.














CHAPTER SIXTEEN
New Years Eve


As New Year’s Eve approached, we made plans for a special dinner. There was this wonderful restaurant Isaac had discovered; a place with enormous picture windows overlooking a small waterfall. During the holidays, they lit up the surrounding forest with thousands of Christmas lights, transforming the woods into something from a fairy tale.
It was beautiful, magical, exactly the kind of place you’d want to be on New Year’s Eve.
A few of our mutual friends were also going to be there, and I’d assumed we’d all sit together. But when we arrived and met up with everyone for drinks, we were eventually escorted to a table for two; positioned right at the main window with one of the best views in the entire restaurant. It was perfect. I felt so incredibly spoiled.
The whole holiday season, Isaac had put so much effort into my happiness. Looking out for my needs, being attentive to anything that might bring me joy and doing it without being asked. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was.
After we’d finished dinner, a spectacular meal of steak and lobster, wine flowing freely, I found myself replaying everything in my head. All the wonderful things Isaac had done. The skating rink when I was depressed. The Christmas Eve event. Coordinating with my children. The cottage. Everything. I couldn’t be silent about it anymore.
I reached forward and took his hands across the table. “I really want to tell you something.”
“Okay,” he said, giving me his full attention.
“I was so scared about taking this step with you,” I began, my voice shaking slightly. “About risking our friendship, about potentially ruining the best thing in my life. But I’m so grateful we did this. So grateful you pushed when I was pulling away.”
I took a breath, trying to organize my thoughts. “You were the only person in my entire life who has ever made me feel completely appreciated and protected and safe. Everything you do for me, I appreciate so much. I’ve never had anyone put so much effort into my happiness.”
Tears were starting to form. “And I always want to be able to do that for you too. I always want you to know how important your happiness is to me. How much you mean to me.” Isaac squeezed my hands, his eyes bright with emotion.
“But there’s something else,” I continued. “Something I need you to understand about what you’ve given me.”
I paused, gathering the words. “When Marcy first asked me to help with the charity, I almost said no. I’d spent so much time and energy building walls, protecting myself from Christmas and all the hurt it represented. I was convinced I couldn’t survive another disappointing holiday.”
“But you said yes,” Isaac said softly.
“Because you were doing it. Because even though I was terrified, I trusted you enough to try.” I felt tears spilling over now, running down my cheeks. “And what I found, what you helped me find, was something I’d given up on.”
“What was that?”
“Hope,” I said simply. “You gave me hope, Isaac. Real hope in the future. Hope that things could get better, that joy was still possible, that I could feel that Christmas magic again.”
I looked into his eyes, wanting him to understand completely. “Do you remember that article you read? About the rats in water? How they’ll drown after fifteen minutes of swimming with no rescue in sight. But if you save them once, just once, they’ll swim for days afterward. Because they have hope. They believe rescue is possible.”
Isaac nodded, listening intently.
“That’s what you did for me,” I said, my voice breaking. “I was drowning, and I’d given up. But you rescued me. You gave me hope. And now I can keep swimming, keep trying, keep believing that good things are possible. That I deserve happiness. That Christmas can be magical again.”
I squeezed his hands tighter. “You gave me the greatest gift, hope. Hope in the future, hope in love, hope in myself. It’s something I needed more than I could have ever realized. More than presents or decorations or even seeing my kids, as wonderful as that was. You gave me the ability to believe again.”
Isaac ’s eyes were shining with unshed tears. “Daniella…”
“I love you,” I said. “I love you so much. And I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done, everything you are. Thank you for not giving up on me. Thank you for giving me hope.”
Isaac stood up slowly, and for a moment I thought he was just coming around to hug me. But then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box.
My breath caught.
He came around to my side of the table and got down on one knee.
The restaurant seemed to freeze. Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Everyone paused, turning to watch.
“Daniella,” Isaac said, his voice steady despite the emotion evident in his eyes. “I would be so happy to spend the rest of my life making you happy. Giving you hope. Being the person you can always count on.”
He opened the box, revealing a beautiful ring, a sapphire surrounded by small diamonds, something unique and perfect.
“Will you marry me?”
The question hung in the air. Everyone in the restaurant was waiting, holding their breath.
“Yes,” I said, the word coming out as a sob and a laugh simultaneously. “Yes, absolutely yes.”
We both jumped up at the same time. Isaac hugged me and spun me around, both of us laughing and crying at once.
It was the absolute zenith of the whole holiday, the perfect culmination of everything that had happened, everything we’d been through together.
When he set me down, he took my hand and slid the ring onto my finger. It fit perfectly, catching the light, beautiful and real and mine.
The entire restaurant erupted in applause and cheers. Our friends rushed over to hug us and congratulate us. Strangers were raising glasses in our direction, celebrating this moment with us.
That night, when the ball dropped and the new year arrived, I had my New Year’s Eve kiss with Isaac. And I knew, with absolute certainty, that I would be having all my New Year’s Eve kisses with him from then on.
I thought about hope, about second chances, about finding magic when you’d given up believing in it.
I thought about all those children at the Christmas Eve event, their faces glowing with joy, and how they’d reminded me what Christmas really meant.
I thought about Timmy holding his unopened present, savoring the moment. About Suzie singing her heart out. About Marcus finding his confidence. About all the families we’d helped, all the connections we’d made.
I thought about my own children, gathered at that perfect cottage, giving me the gift of their presence and love. But most of all, I thought about Isaac. About the man who’d seen me drowning and refused to let me go under. Who’d given me something more valuable than anything that could be wrapped and placed under a tree.
He’d given me hope.
Hope that tomorrow would be better than today; that love was still possible. That even when life breaks your heart, magic can find its way back in. And that, I realized, was the real gift of Christmas. Not presents or decorations or perfect family gatherings, though those were wonderful too.
The real gift was hope.
Hope that keeps us swimming even when we’re tired. Hope that makes us believe in rescue even when we can’t see it coming. Hope that transforms surviving into thriving.
Isaac had given me that gift. And now, wearing his ring, surrounded by friends and joy and possibility, I was ready to give that gift to others. To keep swimming. To keep believing. To keep hoping. Because hope, I’d learned, makes all the difference.





A Hopeful New Beginning