She accepted the paper carefully, holding it as if it might dissolve.
Driving home, Sophie hummed along to the radio, her voice rising and falling with the carols. I glanced at her in the rearview mirror, her face glowing in the dashboard light, singing as if she didn’t have a care in the world.
“Who’s coming for dinner, Mom?” she asked, cradling her stuffed reindeer like it was made of glass. “Someone I know?”
“No, sweetheart,” I said. “But she’s a friend. And she’s someone who could use some company tonight. She needs some love and care and all the Christmas joy we can give her.”
“A Christmas guest? Like in the movies?” Sophie exclaimed, eyes lighting up.
“Exactly like that,” I said, smiling, even as a quiet flicker of doubt rose in my chest.
When we got home, I moved through the kitchen like I was trying to outrun my thoughts. I reheated the ham, mashed the potatoes, and pulled the apple pie from the freezer. Sophie danced around the dining table, folding paper snowflakes and taping them together into a long garland she laid carefully down the center.
I changed into jeans and a soft sweater, wiped down the counters, and lit two candles at the table. For a moment, it felt almost festive—like Christmases from my childhood.
At 6:45 p.m., I checked the window.
At 7 p.m., I smoothed the napkins.
At 7:30 p.m., I put the pie in the oven.
By 8 p.m., Sophie had set a third plate and placed her reindeer on the chair beside it.
“She’ll come, right?” Sophie asked, peering at the door.
“I hope so, baby,” I said lightly. “Maybe she’s just running late with her job at the store.”
At 9 p.m., the pie burned slightly at the edges. Still, no knock came.
“Maybe she forgot,” Sophie said quietly, staring at her snowflakes.
“Maybe,” I said softly. “Or maybe she couldn’t find her way here. But it’s getting late, baby chicken. Come on, let’s eat. We can always save some for Ruth.”
We ate anyway. The food tasted fine, but my heart wasn’t in it. The candles flickered, shadows dancing across the table, cinnamon lingering in the air.
Later, after brushing her teeth and tucking her into bed, Sophie looked up at me with sleepy eyes.
“Mom,” she whispered. “Do you think Santa ever gets lonely too?”
I brushed her hair back gently.
“Maybe, baby. But sometimes kind people make sure no one stays lonely for long. So I hope Santa is always happy and surrounded by people who love him.”
