Page 1 of Daddy Christmas

Chapter 1

Christmas always sent meright back there. To my bad memories. To the pain of the past.

It wasn’t fair.

I stood behind the counter, running my fingers along the edge of the worn wood. The shop smelled like it always did—old books and a hint of cinnamon from the candle I’d lit earlier. It was quiet. Too quiet. I could hear the hum of the mall outside, muffled laughter and the chaotic shuffle of holiday shoppers, but in here? Just me and the books.

The fairy lights around the shelves blinked softly, almost mocking me with their cheer. I glanced up at the small pine tree we’d decorated last week. Tiny ornaments hung from its branches, cheerful and bright. It should’ve felt festive, but instead, it made my chest ache.

I turned my head toward the front window, leaning slightly on the counter for balance. Out there, people rushed by, faces alive with excitement. A mom juggling shopping bags and a toddler who was sucking on a candy cane. Two teenagers laughing so hard they had to clutch each other’s arms. A couple walkinghand in hand, a little too close, like they couldn’t bear to be apart even for a second.

My stomach twisted.

"Must be nice," I muttered under my breath. My finger traced a knot in the wood grain of the counter as I watched them. They didn’t see me. Why would they? I was just part of the background—a shadow in a forgotten corner of the mall.

The holiday music piped through the speakers outside drifted in faintly. Something about sleigh bells. I hated it. Every note felt like an accusation, a reminder of everything this season wasn’t for me. Family. Warmth. Belonging.

I forced myself to look away from the window. No use staring.

I sighed and leaned my elbows on the counter. The wood was cool under my arms, grounding me for a second before the now-familiar wave of frustration crept back in.

“No one wants books anymore, anyway,” I muttered, the words barely louder than the hum of the heater kicking on behind me. My eyes swept over the children’s section near the front—a rainbow of untouched covers staring back at me, mocking me with their glossy cheer.

There wasThe Polar Express, right where I’d left it yesterday, propped up on a little easel like it deserved more attention than the others. Which it did. I reached for it instinctively, letting my fingertips graze the edge of the spine. It was smooth and cool, just like I remembered from when I was little—when I’d first discovered its pages and clung to them like they could take me somewhere better.

"Not that anyone cares," I said softly, tracing the silver lettering. Kids these days didn’t want trains or snow or the promise of magic. They wanted screens that buzzed and beeped and fed them pre-packaged adventures in bite-sized bits.

I snapped the book shut, the sound breaking the silence with a sharp click that echoed. For half a second, I thought aboutputting it back on the shelf, but instead, I held onto it. It felt solid in my hands, like an anchor to something real.

A burst of laughter drifted in from outside, muffled by the glass window. My head turned before I could stop myself.

Santa's Grotto was just across the way, practically glowing under the mall’s fluorescent lights. The archway shimmered like frost, even though I knew it was all plastic and glitter. Attractive young women dressed as Elves darted around the entrance, ushering kids inside with exaggerated grins and candy-striped tights that looked too tight to be comfortable.

I watched as a little boy came out, clutching a box wrapped in red foil. His face split into a grin so wide it made my chest ache. His mom bent down and kissed his cheek, and he laughed again, loud and carefree, like nothing in the world could hurt him.

My stomach twisted, sharp and sudden, and I had to look away. I pressed the book closer to my chest, the hard edge digging against my ribs.

The door jingled faintly as someone walked past outside, their shadow flickering across the floorboards. But no one came in. No one ever came in.

I glanced back at the grotto, even though I told myself not to. Another kid was coming out now, this one holding something that looked like a stuffed reindeer. Her dad lifted her up and spun her around, her giggles cutting through the air like sleigh bells.

The ache in my chest spread lower, settling deep in my stomach.

"Yeah," I whispered, gripping the book tighter. "Real nice."

I ducked behind the counter, pretending to rearrange the stack of bookmarks we gave away for free—"Buy One Book, Get Inspired" printed across them in cheery red script. No one ever took them. Still, I kept my hands busy moving them around,lining up their edges, anything to keep myself from looking back at that damn grotto.

It didn’t work.

The sight of those kids, all light and laughter, was burned into the back of my eyes. I squeezed them shut, but it only made the images sharper. A boy tearing into his gift, a girl clutching her stuffed reindeer like it was the most precious thing in the world. Their parents smiling, proud and warm. The kind of smiles I used to imagine someone might have for me.

A memory slipped through before I could stop it. The sound of wheels grinding against gravel as I lugged my suitcase down yet another driveway. The air cold enough to make my cheeks burn, but not nearly as sharp as the frost in the woman’s voice when she said, “We’ve done our best with her, truly.” Like I was some science project gone wrong.

I opened my eyes, staring down at the counter. My nails scraped against the wood grain as I gripped its edge. For a second, I imagined it splintering beneath my fingers, crumbling into nothing.

"Don’t," I whispered under my breath. My voice came out raw.

But the memories didn’t listen. They never did.

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