“I didn’t want to leave a mess,” she said. “You’ve done so much already.”
“If it’s not too much,” she said. “I can meet her near the station once I charge my phone.”
“It’s not too much,” I said. “Come on. Let’s get you there.”
At the front door, she turned and hugged me awkwardly, one arm still holding Oliver.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “If you hadn’t stopped… I don’t know what would’ve happened.”
I hugged her back.
“I’m glad I did,” I said.
I watched her walk down the path, snow crunching under her shoes, then shut the door and thought that was the end of it.
Fast-forward two days.
The girls were finally home.
They were in their pajamas, hair everywhere, practically vibrating around the tree.
“Can we open them now? Pleeease?” my five-year-old begged.
“Rock-paper-scissors,” I said. “Winner goes first. Those are the rules.”
They played.
The little one won and did a victory dance that looked like interpretive karate.
She was reaching for the first present when the doorbell rang.
“Santa?” she whispered.
My seven-year-old scoffed.
“Santa doesn’t ring doorbells,” she said. “Use your brain.”
“Maybe he forgot something,” the little one said.
I laughed.
“I’ll get it.”
A courier stood on the porch, cheeks pink from the cold, holding a large box wrapped in glossy Christmas paper.
Big red bow.
“Delivery for you,” he said, tilting it so I could see the tag.
My name was written on it in neat handwriting.
No sender listed.
I signed, thanked him, and carried the box into the kitchen.
The girls hovered in the doorway like nosy little cats.
“Is it for us?” my younger one asked.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Let me look first.”
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