Page 2 of Daddy Christmas

Another flash: Christmas Eve, thirteen years old. Sitting cross-legged on the twin-sized bed in a room that wasn’t mine, trying to ignore the shouting downstairs. The other girls had families coming to pick them up for the holidays. My suitcase sat untouched in the corner.

"Maybe next year," they’d told me. But next year never came.

The foster mom had left a plate of cookies on the kitchen table, hard as rocks because no one turned on the oven timer. I nibbled on one anyway, just to feel less alone. The crumbs stuck in my throat, dry and tasteless.

"God," I muttered, scrubbing a hand over my face.

I straightened up, forcing myself to move. Grabbing a dust rag from beneath the counter, I wiped at the shelves along the wall even though they were already clean. Anything to keep from standing still too long.

My gaze darted to the window before I could stop it, catching the soft glow of the Santa’s Grotto lights again. It looked like something off the cover of a holiday card, all sparkling snowflakes and candy cane stripes. A fairy tale come to life.

I swallowed hard, my throat tight.

I’d never been inside one of those places. Never sat on Santa’s lap or whispered a wish into his ear. The closest I’d gotten was standing outside department store windows, watching other kids sit on his knee while their parents snapped pictures. I used to press my hand against the glass, feeling the cold bite of it as I imagined what it would be like to be one of them. To have someone waiting for me when I climbed down, arms open and ready to catch me.

"Stupid," I muttered, shaking my head.

Because that’s all it was—fantasy.

My knees creaked as I stood, brushing non-existent dust off my jeans. The shop was too quiet. Deafening in its emptiness. I glanced around at the rows of books, their spines lined up neatly like little soldiers waiting for orders. A part of me wanted to grab one—something whimsical, colorful—and curl up in the corner with it. But that would only make the ache worse.

Instead, I let my gaze wander to the far shelf, where a small display of children’s books sat. Bright covers. Big fonts. Happy endings. The kind I used to wish for when I was small, hugging an old stuffed rabbit I’d found in a donation bin. I hadn’t been able to keep him, of course. Nothing stayed long in foster care. Not toys, not clothes, not people.

Nope. It wasn’t fair. Everyone else seemed to enjoy this time of year. Not me though. It would be so nice to be able to play. To read. To enjoy reveling in childish things.

"Not today," I whispered, though I wasn’t sure who I was talking to. Myself, maybe. Or the girl I used to be—the one who still lingered inside me, clutching at memories that never really belonged to her.

She came out sometimes, that girl. When the world got loud, or my own thoughts got too heavy. In those moments, I’d retreat to my little apartment, close the blinds, and pull out my stash of crayons and coloring books. It wasn’t much, but it helped. Gave me space to breathe. To feel safe.

"Just for a little while," I’d tell myself, curling up on the couch with a blanket pulled over my head. There was no judgment there. No expectations. Just me, and the soft hum of cartoons playing in the background. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine.

The jingling bell over the door snapped me out of my thoughts so fast, I almost tripped over my own feet. My heart jumped, the sound cutting through the silence like a blade.

"Hi there," came a voice—smooth, warm, and honeyed in a way that made me straighten instinctively.

I looked up, and for a second, I forgot how to move. Or blink. Or breathe.

She stood just inside the doorway, auburn waves tumbling over her shoulders, green eyes sparkling, framed by impossibly thick lashes. Her smile wasn’t just friendly, it was radiant. Like she carried some secret warmth that spilled out into the air around her.

"Sorry," she said, brushing at her sweater—a deep red that matched her lipstick perfectly. "Didn’t mean to startle you."

"Uh . . ." My brain stalled, gears grinding uselessly. "No. I mean, it’s fine. You didn’t."

She laughed, low and easy, and I swore I felt it right in my chest. She stepped farther into the shop, her boots clicking softly against the wood floor. "I’m looking forThe Polar Express." Her emerald eyes sparkled as they landed on me. "Do you have it?"

I blinked, startled by the coincidence. My favorite book. Somehow, that didn’t feel random at all.

"Yes," I said quickly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "We’ve got a copy right over here." I moved around the counter, leading her to the display near the front window. My pulse thudded in my ears, and I couldn’t figure out why. It was just a customer. Just another sale. Nothing unusual.

"Here it is," I said, stopping in front of the stack. The glossy cover gleamed under the soft light—a train cutting through the snow under a sky full of stars. My fingers brushed the edge instinctively, something about the illustration always pulling me in.

"Perfect." She reached out, picking up a copy. Her movements were fluid, purposeful, like she did everything with intention. She traced her fingertips over the cover, lingering on the golden letters. "This was my favorite story as a kid," she said softly, almost to herself. "There’s just something so . . ." She paused, searching for the word. "Magical."

"Yeah," I agreed, feeling my throat tighten. "It really is. Being taken away from your normal life, to somewhere better, more exciting."

Her gaze flicked back to me, the corners of her mouth lifting. For a second, it felt like we were sharing something unsaid. A quiet understanding. Then she broke it, reaching into her purse.

"Let’s see . . ." She rifled through her bag, pulling out a handful of coins. "Uh-oh," she muttered, tipping the coins into her palm. "Looks like I might’ve gone a little overboard at the candy shop earlier." She chuckled, holding up what had to be three quarters and some dimes. "Guess I’m short. That’s embarrassing."

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