Page 1 of Babygirl for Christmas

Prologue

Cherry

It’sthirteen days until Christmas, and I can’t seem to find my Christmas spirit. The holidays have always been my favorite time of year, but this year, there doesn’t seem like much to celebrate. My grandma passed away four months ago, leaving me completely alone in the world. My mother is long gone, having dumped me on my grandma’s doorstep when I was two years old. She isn’t an alcoholic or a drug addict. No, she just didn’t like having a kid around cramping her style. She’s selfish, pure and simple.

I don’t have a father—I know I wasn’t conceived by immaculate conception, but I might as well have been. My grandma asked my mom about my dad once, and she laughed. She had no clue which of her boyfriends at the time it could be. I’ll be honest, it never bothered me that I didn’t have traditional parents. My grandma raised me in a house filled with love and laughter, and that’s always been enough for me.

Except now she’s gone, and I’m alone.

I let out a sad sigh, thinking about the last year. Grandma was seventy-three when she had the first stroke. It was devastating, but we got through. I moved back home to help her despite her protests—and there were many. She hated that I was putting my life on hold for her and she hated being a burden. What she didn’t realize is that I was happy to come home. The city was a lonely place, and I ached for the familiarity of my hometown.

Everyone gave me pats on the back for being so willing to sacrifice everything to take care of her, but it wasn’t a sacrifice at all—not to me. Grandma took me in when my mother didn’t want me, never once considering there were other options. How could I not give her the same unconditional love that she gave me?

Her second stroke came just six months after the first. If the first one was devastating, this one was catastrophic. She lost control of her speech and the ability to swallow. She couldn’t do even the most basic things for herself. The spark of defiance that fired behind her eyes after that first one went out like a light. The hope of recovery was nonexistent, and it snuffed out her will to fight.

It was a bitter pill to swallow when it became evident that she wouldn’t be coming home. She needed twenty-four-hour care from professionals. I found her a lovely facility, not willing to give her anything but the very best of care. I visited her every day and made sure she was happy and comfortable. My heart broke into tiny pieces as I watched her slowly deteriorate.

She had a third stroke four months ago and died in her sleep. Sad doesn’t even describe how I felt after getting the call informing me of what had happened. It was an instant hole in my chest that still, to this day, feels like an aching chasm that will never be filled. There’s also an incredible amount of guilt weighing me down. After the shock wore off, I had this overwhelming feeling of relief.

I didn’t want her to die but knowing that she was no longer wasting away and was free from being a prisoner inside her own body was such a huge relief. She wasn’t suffering any longer, and my selfishness was the only reason I hated that she was gone. I wasn’t ready to let go, but God had different plans. One that included taking my grandma long before I was prepared to let her go.

I look around the living room, cataloging the lack of Christmas decorations. The tree would be in front of the big bay window—lights twinkling happily. Grandma’s nativity, the most prized of her decorations, would be lovingly displayed on the mantlepiece. Not to mention her collection of snowmen and the mailbox to the North Pole… boxes and boxes of lights, garland, and more. Grandma would be so disappointed to see her home without any holiday cheer.

I just can’t bring myself to decorate, not when my heart is still broken.

1

Cherry

After a fitful night of sleep,I drag myself out of bed, and through my morning routine. I’m just finishing up brushing my teeth when the doorbell rings. The clock on my phone says it's barely six forty-five in the morning, way too early for anyone I know to come calling. The doorbell rings again and again.

Whoever it is, is seriously impatient.

I tighten my robe around my waist and open the door. I’m greeted by a smiling girl who can’t be any older than eighteen. She’s got light blonde hair that’s a mess of corkscrew curls, bright blue eyes, and an infectious smile that I can’t help but return.

“Cherry Wilson?” she asks in a lyrical voice.

“Yes, I’m Cherry.”

“Great! I’ve got your order in the van. I’ll be right back.” She’s already dancing down the porch steps before I have a chance to tell her there must’ve been some kind of mistake because I didn’t order anything.

She disappears behind the back of a cotton candy pink van that I recognize from my favorite bakery and returns with a huge box. Smiling widely, she hands over the package. “Here you go! I hope you enjoy them; I had such a fun time decorating these.”

“I’m sorry, I think there’s been a mistake. I didn’t order anything.”

“Oh,” she frowns, then pulls out her phone. Her fingers fly over the screen, and then her smile is back. “It says on the order that they are to be delivered to Cherry Wilson on the fourteenth of December.”

“Does it mention who ordered them?”

“Santa,” she says, giggling.

I stare at her, completely at a loss for words.

“Maybe he’s just making sure he gets the best treats come Christmas Eve,” she jokes. “I’ve gotta run! Lots of deliveries this morning. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” I reply, shutting the door against the cold December morning.

I set the box on the kitchen counter, wondering who in the world would send me something. I open the lid to the box, and the delicious scent of fresh-baked cookies fills the air. I can’t resist leaning over the box and taking a deep breath. My eyes practically roll into the back of my head from pleasure. The sweet smell of sugar and vanilla has my mouth-watering. I lift the colorful tissue paper, revealing the treat below—twelve perfectly decorated sugar cookies line the bottom of the box. It takes me a minute to understand what I’m seeing. Each cookie is numbered one through twelve, and they each have a different image delicately painted on them in icing. It’s the twelve days of Christmas—each cookie is decorated to represent one of the days from the song.

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