Our daughter, Lila, was eleven that year. She had Greg’s gentle heart and my stubborn confidence. She was thoughtful in a way that surprised people, especially for her age.
She still believed in Santa. Or maybe she simply believed in the beauty of believing.
That year, her note read, “Thank you for trying so hard.”
I stood in the kitchen holding that piece of paper longer than I needed to. Parenting often feels like guessing in the dark, hoping your best is enough. That note told me, quietly, that maybe we were doing something right.
Christmas, for us, had always been about warmth. Familiar traditions. Safe joy.
At least, that’s what I thought.
The Package That Didn’t Belong
About a week before Christmas, I was standing at the kitchen counter sorting through the mail. Bills, holiday cards, school notices.
Then I noticed a small box that felt different.
It was wrapped in thick, cream-colored paper, the kind that feels almost velvety beneath your fingers. Elegant. Intentional.
There was no return address.
I called out to him without thinking much of it. “Hey, something came for you.”
Greg was in the living room adjusting the garland above the fireplace. When he walked over and took the box from my hands, I noticed the change immediately.
He stopped moving.
His thumb traced the writing slowly. His shoulders stiffened. His face drained of color.
Then he said a single word.
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