Page 16 of Daddy's Christmas Rescue
“I kept her things,” he went on. “Couldn’t bring myself to throw them out. Figured maybe someday I’d pass them on to someone who needed them.”
The back of my throat burned. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
He shook his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just wasn’t expecting to see them again.” he looked in the closet and his eyes fell on the two boxes marked“Christmas.”
“I was playing,” I whispered. “It was stupid.”
His eyes lifted to mine. “No, it wasn’t. Lila used to do the same thing. She’d build little villages all over the floor.” His mouth twitched in something close to a smile. “You reminded me of that for a second. That’s not a bad thing.”
It made me blink fast, unsure what to do with that kind of softness. “But I’m not eight,” I whispered.
He straightened, brushing his palms on his jeans. “My mom was a smart woman. She used to say folks should do what brings them joy, and I agree. Leave ’em out if you want. The bunny, too. Lila would have liked that. She'd have liked someone to love him.”
I looked down at the small pink creature. “What was his name?”
"Didn't have one. Reckon you get to name him."
"Sure?" I said hopefully, thinking of the perfect name.
“Yeah.” His voice was rough again, but kind. “Pretty sure she’d approve.”
Then he turned and headed for the kitchen, Biscuit trotting after him.
I sat there, the room still warm with dust and sun, the bunny back in my lap. I stroked its worn ear, tracing the stitching where it had once come loose.
It didn’t feel like I’d stolen something. It felt like I’d been trusted with a secret.
I was eight when Nana died.
The house smelled different afterward. Not of baking or lavender or the soft soap she used on my hair, but of polish and perfume—sharp, cold, grown-up.
We were already living in Nana’s house, but Mom said we had to clean everything out. “New start,” she called it. But it didn’t feel new. It felt like throwing love away.
I was sitting on my bed, holding Banjo, the teddy Nana had given me the Christmas I was born. He had one button eye and a patch on his paw where Nana had stitched him after her dog chewed it. His fur was thin and smelled faintly of sugar cookies no matter how many times he got washed.
Mom came in carrying a box. Her heels clicked on the floor. “Pack those up,” she said gesturing to my dolls.
“All of them?” I asked in shock.
“All,” she said. “You’re too old for this nonsense now. You need to grow up, Holly. No more baby things.”
I held Banjo tighter. “But—”
She snatched him before I could finish. I remember the sound of the button eye scraping against her bracelet. The tiny pop of a stitch coming loose.
“He’s nothing,” she said, tossing him into the box with the others. “You’ll thank me later.”
I didn’t thank her. I didn’t say anything at all.
After she left, I crept into the hallway where the box waited by the door. I reached in and touched Banjo’s paw through the cardboard flap. Just once. Mom had caught me and it had been the first time I’d gotten hit. I’d been smacked before when Nana wasn’t around, but Mom didn’t hold back this time. Then she hit me a second time for crying.
That was the day I stopped expecting comfort, even though I learned to be obedient. Because I thought if I said yes to everything and be quiet they’d love me.
I'd been wrong.
I heard Blake go out to his truck and curious, went into the kitchen in case I needed to help. He didn’t even try to hide the armful of bags he brought back. There were at least six of them, all festive paper, heavy. He carried them by the handles like they weighed nothing. He dumped the bags on the kitchen table, one after another, until it looked like Christmas morning in a department store.
I stood in the doorway, the bunny from the box still clutched in my arms, and stared.
