The Very Best Gift of All

I sit cross-legged on my bed and contemplate the lonely night ahead. It’s Christmas Eve, and of all nights to be alone, tonight is the worst time for a 16-year-old to be by herself. And tomorrow will be even worse.

Ever since Dad passed six months ago, Mom has been working tons of overtime to make ends meet, and tonight she’s doing another double-shift at the hospital where she is a nurse. Dad’s tiny life-insurance policy barely covered final expenses, and Mom now has the entire responsibility of running the home and parenting me. Sadly, the “parenting me” part gets short-shrift, and once again I’m home all alone. 

Christmas has always been my favorite time of the year, but now that Dad’s gone and Mom’s working all the time, it only feels lonely. Mom didn’t even set up the tree or decorate or bake any cookies or anything, and when I asked her, she sighed and said she was too tired and we would do it later. 

Mom is so distant these days. I mean, she’s here physically, in body, but she might as well be on a different planet. When Dad died, she took it really hard — even more than me — and she cried for days on end. I think she’s depressed or something, just struggling to make it through the day. I sure do miss her. I miss Dad too. It’s like I’ve lost both parents this year. 

I rack my brain trying to think of someone to call, but I come up blank. All my friends are with their families or out of town this week, and my family — other than Mom — lives out of state. There’s nobody to celebrate with until Mom comes home from work tomorrow afternoon, but she will probably go straight to bed as usual. The hospital is short-staffed during the holidays, and they often ask her to work past her regular shift. She never says no. 

I just thought of something: I didn’t write Santa a letter this year. It’s too late now. Guess I won’t get a Christmas gift tomorrow. I find this strangely amusing. Of course, I know Santa isn’t real, but I guess I still have a sliver of hope for a little magic to end this tough year on a positive note.

It’s been a tradition for as long as I can remember. Every year, the day after Thanksgiving, Mom has me write a letter to Santa and ask him for something that I really want for Christmas. I mail the letter to 123 Elf Road, North Pole, and hope he gets it.  

A few weeks later, when I wake up on Christmas Day, I’m amazed that Santa brings what I wished for, and he leaves it under the tree, along with gifts I didn’t ask for, like clothes, socks, shoes and stuff. Mom says it’s because I’ve been a good girl, and Santa rewards good girls with extra gifts. Naughty girls and boys only get a lump of coal.

I’m surprised that Santa knows my clothes and shoe sizes because I never tell him in my letters. Mom giggles and says Santa must be a really good guesser. After all, if Santa knows who’s naughty or nice, why wouldn’t he know their clothing sizes? 

Another thing: how the heck does Santa fit through the chimney? It’s way too small for a roly-poly guy like Santa — I’ve checked with a tape measure. I asked Dad about it once; he gave me a wink, and told me not to worry because “Santa knows how to do these things.” 

The cookies and milk we leave in the kitchen are always gone when I wake up on Christmas morning. Mom says Santa really likes her cookies. I really like her cookies too, and wish I had some cookies right now. Maybe we can bake some tomorrow when she gets home, but she will probably be too tired as usual. I don’t even know when she will be home. 

Although I figured out Santa a long time ago, I played along with the yearly charade. Mom and Dad seemed happy that I believed Santa read my letters and brought me gifts every Christmas, and I didn’t want to disappoint them. But Santa’s a myth — a fairytale for children, and I’m not a child anymore. I know who Santa really is. 

I think I’m going to email Santa my wish list. I know it’s silly, and it’s late, and I don’t really believe in Santa anymore, but why not continue the tradition? It will make me feel better, even if it is make believe.

I open my laptop and type:  

Dear Santa, 

I’m sorry for writing to you so late, but it’s been a hard year. Dad passed away, and Mom is tired and sad all the time, and she forgot to have me write you a letter. I’ve been a good girl this year, at least most of the time. Just kidding, you know I’ve been good. 

I want only one thing for Christmas. Well, maybe two, if you can swing it. I hope I’m not asking for too much, but this year, I would like…

I finish the email and sign my name, “Sincerely, Suzy.” I hover the cursor over the send button and pause. Wait, where do I send it? Will the email reach him in time? Does Santa even read emails? Will I get a lump of coal instead of a gift? This is dumb. Santa is not real. I’m not doing this. 

I Google Santa’s email address, click send, and close my laptop. 

I watch TV until my eyes flutter and my head nods; l curl under the duvet and fall asleep. I dream of sleigh bells jingling, reindeer prancing, and Santa laughing as he leaves me an enormous lump of coal because there were no milk and cookies for him to eat.  

*****

The warm rays of sunlight stream through the bedroom windows onto my closed eyelids, gently rousing me from sleep. I yawn and rub my eyes. I check my phone. It’s 10:15 a.m. Wow, I must have been really tired to sleep so late! 

I hear the front door open. Mom? It can’t be. I jump out of bed and head to the living room. Mom is hanging her sweater in the coat closet, and when she sees me, she beams from ear to ear, like I haven’t seen in months. She beckons with outstretched arms. “Good morning, lovebug, give me a hug!”

I run to her and embrace her tightly, absorbing the soothing warmth and comfort that only a mother can give. “Oh, Mom, I missed you so much!” I choke with emotion, unable to speak. I finally manage, “How come you’re home early?”  

“A couple of nurses came in to work extra hours, and they told me to go home and enjoy Christmas with my family. So here I am.” 

Mom lets go of me, and she swipes at the moisture in her eyes. “Let me make you some breakfast, honey. How about your favorites — eggs, bacon, pancakes and hash browns? I’ll even make you coffee if you like; you’re old enough now.” 

“Mmm…yes please.” 

“Then we’ll bake cookies and make fudge. I’m sorry we didn’t do it earlier. And I’m sorry I forgot to have you write to Santa Claus.” 

“It’s okay, Mom,” I say. “It’s been tough the last few months. We both miss Dad.” I squeeze Mom’s hand, warm and soft, and I feel moisture seep from my own eyes. We hold hands for a moment, silent in our shared loss.  

I hear a faint thump and whimper, but it’s not coming from Mom. She looks past me and points, her eyes wide. I turn around to see a Christmas tree next to the fireplace decorated with dazzling ornaments and sparkling lights.

I was so happy to see Mom home I didn’t even notice. Where did that come from? We didn’t put up a tree. Or did Mom put it up when I was sleeping last night? I look at her; she shrugs and looks puzzled. 

Under the tree is a silver square box wrapped with a wide red ribbon and oversized bow, with small holes punched on the top and sides. I walk over to the box and pick it up. Something moves inside. What is this?  

I remove the ribbon and open the lid. Peering up at me is a small furry brown ball, with shaggy ears, a twitching nose, and a wagging tail. Oh my gosh, it’s a puppy!  

I take the pup from the box and hold her in my arms as she shakes with excitement and licks my face. It’s love at first sight for me, and I believe, for her as well. 

“Thanks, Mom, this is the best Christmas gift ever!”  

Mom smiles and shakes her head. “It’s not from me, dear. I didn’t get ‌this gift. And I didn’t put up the tree. I was at work all night. 

“Then who…?” I stop mid-sentence.

“Santa Claus?” Mom offers. 

“But…but Mom…you are Santa,” I stutter. “I know it’s always been you and Dad. The letters never go to Santa because he’s not real. He doesn’t live at the North Pole. And he doesn’t bring me gifts. I pretended I believed to make you and Dad happy.”

“Well, yes…we are…we were…” Mom admits. “But not this year. I’ve been so totally out of it since your father passed away, like a mental haze where I can’t think straight. It takes all my energy just to focus on my job, and I barely manage that.” 

“But late last night — around midnight — something happened that I can’t explain. It’s like a light switched on and the haze was gone, my mind was clear, and I felt happy for the first time since Dad died. I realized how much I love you and miss you, and how I couldn’t wait to come home to be with you.

With a wistful gaze, Mom’s eyes lock with mine. “I’m sorry I didn’t get you a gift. I feel really bad about that. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” 

“There’s nothing to make up to me, Mom. Having you back is far better than any gift you could ever give me.” 

The puppy wiggles and squirms in my arms; I set her down on the floor, and she waddles off, sniffing, barking, and exploring the room. Mom and I chuckle at her adventurous spirit. 

“It’s time to ‘fess up,” I say. “You won’t believe this, but I emailed Santa last night and asked him for a puppy, even though I know the whole Santa thing is fake. It felt good to send a letter, like I do every year. But then…I find a gift-wrapped puppy under a tree that magically appears from nowhere. If you didn’t do it, who did? Santa? 

Mom nods. “Yes, I suppose he did. It wasn’t me, but I wish it had been. It is such a thoughtful gift.”

I watch the little pup wandering about, excitedly exploring her new home. “Dora, the explorer.” I say. That’s her name, Dora.” 

“Dora is perfect,” says Mom.

“And Mom, I asked Santa for one more gift. I asked him to bring you back home to me. Not just physically, but emotionally, mentally, spiritually  — like you used to be.” 

“Aww… that’s so sweet,” Mom coos.

“And here you are. Santa gave me the gift of you — and you are the very best gift of all.” I watch Dora roaming nearby. “Even better than a puppy.” 

Mom dabs tears from her eyes, and I dab my own. I’m glad I emailed Santa last night. This has turned out to be a very good Christmas after all. I got the two best gifts I could ever hope for: a puppy and a mother. 

“Merry Christmas, Mom. I love you. Welcome home.”