Daddy Christmas

Chapter 1

C hristmas always sent me right back there. To my bad memories. To the pain of the past.

It wasn’t fair.

I stood behind the counter, running my fingers along the edge of the worn wood. The shop smelled like it always did—old books and a hint of cinnamon from the candle I’d lit earlier. It was quiet. Too quiet. I could hear the hum of the mall outside, muffled laughter and the chaotic shuffle of holiday shoppers, but in here? Just me and the books.

The fairy lights around the shelves blinked softly, almost mocking me with their cheer. I glanced up at the small pine tree we’d decorated last week. Tiny ornaments hung from its branches, cheerful and bright. It should’ve felt festive, but instead, it made my chest ache.

I turned my head toward the front window, leaning slightly on the counter for balance. Out there, people rushed by, faces alive with excitement. A mom juggling shopping bags and a toddler who was sucking on a candy cane. Two teenagers laughing so hard they had to clutch each other’s arms. A couple walking hand in hand, a little too close, like they couldn’t bear to be apart even for a second.

My stomach twisted.

"Must be nice," I muttered under my breath. My finger traced a knot in the wood grain of the counter as I watched them. They didn’t see me. Why would they? I was just part of the background—a shadow in a forgotten corner of the mall.

The holiday music piped through the speakers outside drifted in faintly. Something about sleigh bells. I hated it. Every note felt like an accusation, a reminder of everything this season wasn’t for me. Family. Warmth. Belonging.

I forced myself to look away from the window. No use staring.

I sighed and leaned my elbows on the counter. The wood was cool under my arms, grounding me for a second before the now-familiar wave of frustration crept back in.

“No one wants books anymore, anyway,” I muttered, the words barely louder than the hum of the heater kicking on behind me. My eyes swept over the children’s section near the front—a rainbow of untouched covers staring back at me, mocking me with their glossy cheer.

There was The Polar Express , right where I’d left it yesterday, propped up on a little easel like it deserved more attention than the others. Which it did. I reached for it instinctively, letting my fingertips graze the edge of the spine. It was smooth and cool, just like I remembered from when I was little—when I’d first discovered its pages and clung to them like they could take me somewhere better.

"Not that anyone cares," I said softly, tracing the silver lettering. Kids these days didn’t want trains or snow or the promise of magic. They wanted screens that buzzed and beeped and fed them pre-packaged adventures in bite-sized bits.

I snapped the book shut, the sound breaking the silence with a sharp click that echoed. For half a second, I thought about putting it back on the shelf, but instead, I held onto it. It felt solid in my hands, like an anchor to something real.

A burst of laughter drifted in from outside, muffled by the glass window. My head turned before I could stop myself.

Santa's Grotto was just across the way, practically glowing under the mall’s fluorescent lights. The archway shimmered like frost, even though I knew it was all plastic and glitter. Attractive young women dressed as Elves darted around the entrance, ushering kids inside with exaggerated grins and candy-striped tights that looked too tight to be comfortable.

I watched as a little boy came out, clutching a box wrapped in red foil. His face split into a grin so wide it made my chest ache. His mom bent down and kissed his cheek, and he laughed again, loud and carefree, like nothing in the world could hurt him.

My stomach twisted, sharp and sudden, and I had to look away. I pressed the book closer to my chest, the hard edge digging against my ribs.

The door jingled faintly as someone walked past outside, their shadow flickering across the floorboards. But no one came in. No one ever came in.

I glanced back at the grotto, even though I told myself not to. Another kid was coming out now, this one holding something that looked like a stuffed reindeer. Her dad lifted her up and spun her around, her giggles cutting through the air like sleigh bells.

The ache in my chest spread lower, settling deep in my stomach.

"Yeah," I whispered, gripping the book tighter. "Real nice."

I ducked behind the counter, pretending to rearrange the stack of bookmarks we gave away for free—"Buy One Book, Get Inspired" printed across them in cheery red script. No one ever took them. Still, I kept my hands busy moving them around, lining up their edges, anything to keep myself from looking back at that damn grotto.

It didn’t work.

The sight of those kids, all light and laughter, was burned into the back of my eyes. I squeezed them shut, but it only made the images sharper. A boy tearing into his gift, a girl clutching her stuffed reindeer like it was the most precious thing in the world. Their parents smiling, proud and warm. The kind of smiles I used to imagine someone might have for me.

A memory slipped through before I could stop it. The sound of wheels grinding against gravel as I lugged my suitcase down yet another driveway. The air cold enough to make my cheeks burn, but not nearly as sharp as the frost in the woman’s voice when she said, “We’ve done our best with her, truly.” Like I was some science project gone wrong.

I opened my eyes, staring down at the counter. My nails scraped against the wood grain as I gripped its edge. For a second, I imagined it splintering beneath my fingers, crumbling into nothing.

"Don’t," I whispered under my breath. My voice came out raw.

But the memories didn’t listen. They never did.

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 for The 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."

"Don’t worry about it," I said quickly. The words came out before I could think them through. "Just . . . consider it a gift."

She froze, eyebrows arching. "Are you serious?" Her tone was more surprised than skeptical, but still, it made heat crawl up the back of my neck.

"Yeah," I said, brushing nonexistent dust off the display. "Everyone should have their favorite book for the holidays."

For a second, she just stared at me. Then her face softened, her lips curving into a smile that could’ve melted snow. "That’s. . ." She shook her head slightly, like she couldn’t believe it. "That’s incredibly kind of you. Thank you."

"Sure," I replied, heart thudding a little harder now. "Merry Christmas."

"Thank you so much," she said, her voice bright and warm. She held the book close, like it was something precious, then tilted her head as if a thought had just occurred to her. Her smile shifted, more playful now, like she was in on a secret I didn’t know about.

"You know," she started, leaning in slightly, her tone dropping into something almost conspiratorial. "I should return the favor."

"Favor?" I echoed, blinking at her.

"Yeah," she said, her emerald-green eyes sparkling with mischief. She glanced over her shoulder, toward the mall's main walkway, then back at me. "I actually work over at Santa’s Grotto." She pointed discreetly through the window, her painted red nails catching the soft glow of the fairy lights strung around the shop.

"You're an elf?" The words slipped out before I could stop them. I instantly felt dumb for stating the obvious, but she didn’t seem to mind. In fact, her grin widened.

"One of the best," she said, straightening with mock pride, like she’d just won some kind of award. "And I happen to have a little pull with the big guy himself."

"Santa?" I asked flatly, still trying to catch up. My gaze flicked to the elaborate setup across the mall—the glittering archway, the faux snow, kids practically vibrating with excitement as they waited their turn. It looked . . . overwhelming.

"Yep," she said, popping the “p” like she was enjoying herself. "Would you like to meet him? I can arrange a special visit for you. No lines, no screaming toddlers. Just you and Santa."

"Me?" My voice came out softer than I intended, almost unsure. I must’ve looked ridiculous, standing there behind the counter, clutching my hands together like I didn’t know what to do with them. "Meet Santa?"

"Why not?" she asked, her expression open and easy, like this was the most normal suggestion in the world. "He loves meeting new people. And trust me"—she leaned in again, her voice dropping to a stage whisper—"it’s magical. Even for adults."

Her words hung in the air between us, light but with a weight I couldn’t quite name. For a moment, it felt like she was offering me more than just a trip to some over-decorated photo op. Like she saw something in me that I hadn’t even noticed myself.

The corners of her mouth tugged up again, a knowing look in her eyes. "So? What do you think?"

I shifted on my feet, the weight of her offer sinking in. My palms were suddenly sweaty, and I had to clasp them together to keep from fidgeting. “I . . . I’ve never actually been to a Santa’s Grotto before,” I admitted. The words felt small, like they barely made it past my lips.

She tilted her head, her auburn waves catching the light like fire. Her expression softened, but not in that pitying way people sometimes looked at me when they found out too much. It was different—gentler, warmer. “Then it’s time you did,” she said, her voice soft but firm, like this wasn’t up for debate. “Everyone deserves a bit of holiday magic.”

Holiday magic. The phrase sat heavy in my chest, tangled with memories I didn’t want to touch. But there was something in her tone, in the way she looked at me, that made it hard to say no. Like maybe she really believed it.

“What do you say?” she asked, her smile nudging me forward, coaxing me toward something I couldn’t quite put a name to.

I hesitated, biting the inside of my cheek. Then I nodded. “I’d love to.” My voice cracked just a little on the last word, but she didn’t seem to notice—or maybe she pretended not to. Either way, her grin widened like I’d just made her day.

"Wonderful!" She practically bounced as she reached into her purse, rummaging through what sounded like a collection of jingling trinkets. A second later, she pulled out a small card. It was heavier than I expected when she handed it to me, the gold snowflakes embossed so perfectly they almost looked real. Tiny bells along the edges chimed softly with every movement, their sound impossibly delicate.

"Show this at the entrance tomorrow evening," she explained, tapping the card lightly with one manicured nail. "Around closing time. We’ll set up a special visit just for you.” She winked, and for a moment, I wondered if she could see right through me—if she knew how badly I wanted to say yes even before I nodded.

"By the way," she added, holding out her hand, "I’m Ella."

"I'm Gemma," I said, sliding the card carefully into my pocket before shaking her hand. Her grip was warm, steady, the kind that made you feel anchored even if you weren’t. “Thank you, Ella. This . . . this means a lot.”

Her eyes softened again, her smile tilting into something more knowing, more intimate. “Trust me,” she said quietly, “it’ll be worth it.” Then, with a quick wave and a jingle of those tiny bells, she turned and headed for the door.

I stayed rooted behind the counter, my fingers brushing over the outline of the card in my pocket. It felt heavier now, like it carried more than just an invitation. Like it carried promises I wasn’t sure I deserved.