Page 136 of Before I Loved You

It’s me.

I run my hand over the picture.

A frightened girl with jet-black hair, pale as the moon, sits with a teddy bear clutched to her chest, showing just the tiniest smile.

It was the first time in months I had smiled, thanks to the man sitting next to me, beaming at the camera. He’s the man who gave me Teddy all those years ago.

I don’t know who this man is. But I hope he knows what that teddy bear means to me.

I hope he knows that because of him, I never gave up.

TWELVE YEARS AGO

I wrap the blanket around my scrawny body, tucking myself into the corner of the window seat bench, watching the snow fall outside. The glass is cold, each pane frosted, but I’d rather be here than anywhere else in this unfamiliar place.

Children are laughing in the other room, opening their Christmas presents. But I don’t understand how they can be happy when we’re here because we don’t have parents.

And nobody wants us.

Tears gather in my eyes, slowly falling down my cheeks, and I let them, not worrying about wiping them away since no one is here to witness them.

“Somebody told me you might be in here.”

Whipping my head to the side, I spot a very tall man leaning against the doorframe. He takes a few steps, approaching me, causing me to withdraw further into the corner.

He raises his hands. “It’s okay. I’m just here to give you your present from Santa.” He dangles a bag in front of him, trying to lure me with the promise of a toy.

The only problem is there’s no toy I want.

And when they asked me to fill out my letter for Santa, there was only one thing I could think of that I desperately wanted and needed.

And there’s no way it’s in that bag.

It’s not possible.

I turn my head to glare out the window. “I didn’t want anything.”

“Hmm. That’s not what Santa told me.” He shakes his head. “No, he told me your gift was the most special of all the gifts today.”

“He did?” I ask suspiciously.

He crosses his heart. “On my honor.”

I purse my lips, sitting up straight.

He points to the other side of the bench. “Is it okay if I sit here?”

I nod, watching as he sits, stretching his long legs before him.

“How tall are you?” I ask.

He scratches his head. “Last I checked, I was six foot seven. But my wife keeps telling me she thinks I’ll never stop growing.” He laughs, placing the bag between us.

I try to peek inside, but there’s tissue paper on top, covering whatever hides beneath.

“So, why aren’t you out there with all the other kids?” he asks.

“I prefer being alone.”

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