Some Christmas Eve this turned out to be. At least we were home.
After the doctors checked Mason out for any neurological damage, he got the all clear to leave the hospital. While he had hit his head crashing into a barrier, apparently there was no lasting damage. Thank God. I couldn’t imagine something happening to my son; he was my entire world.
Rather than head back to my sister’s so late, Mason and I headed home on the snowy roads to have a quiet, late Christmas Eve together. I’d let him stay up a little later tonight, and then after he went to bed, I’d play Santa and lay out all the gifts I had wrapped and hidden under my bed.
Unfortunately, the one gift he wanted wouldn’t be under the tree. After everything he’d been through tonight, I wished he could’ve woken up to the surprise of the robot. I’d have to explain to him that Santa Claus promised to make a special trip back after Christmas to bring him one. I had it all planned out. I would write a little note in “Santa’s” writing and leave it next to the cookie crumbs that were left behind. My son always left cookies out for Santa, and I’d always enjoyed them as a midnight snack. Ever since my husband died, I’d used those little late-night moments to talk to him while I sat there alone, eating the cookies and staring at the lights on the tree. It had become my own private tradition. A sad one at that.
It was now 9:30, and Mason and I had just taken the cookies out of the oven. I’d told him he had to go to bed after we finished baking. The air filled with the smell of molten chocolate.
He jumped up and down. “Can I have one now?”
“We need to wait for them to cool first.”
Several minutes later, Mason enjoyed three cookies with a tall glass of milk before we prepared a plate for Santa and left it on a small table next to the tree.
Then, I tucked my son into bed, hugging him a bit tighter than usual. To ensure he didn’t wake up while I was placing the gifts under the tree, I always reminded him that Santa needed him to be asleep in order to safely come in unseen. It always baffled me how easily kids bought into the whole Santa Claus thing. I kept wondering when Mason would figure it out. He was seven, which was about the age that I discovered the truth. But I was happy it hadn’t happened yet, because I was certainly in no rush to have him grow up.
Just as I’d finished the process of moving the presents from under my bed to the living room, the doorbell rang.
Adrenaline coursed through me. I hadn’t been expecting anyone, and a horrible feeling of déjà vu hit as I remembered the police coming to my door to tell me that my husband had been killed in an accident.
My heart raced as I peeked through the peephole.
The man who met my eyes was perhaps the last person I ever expected.
It was Bryce, the gorgeous man from Kline’s.
What?
And he was holding a large, wrapped box.
My heart pounded.
The robot?
How did he find me?
I opened as a rush of frigid wind hit me in the face.
“Bryce! How did you know where I lived?”
His eyes widened. Cold air billowed from his mouth as he just stood there for several seconds. Then he finally said, “You live here?”
“Yes. I can’t believe you found me, and that you brought…the robot?”
“Yeah…”
He blinked.
“I can’t thank you enough. Did you feel sorry for me because of what happened? I don’t know what to—”
“I can’t believe this.” He just kept shaking his head.
In my stunned state, I hadn’t even invited him in from the cold. So I stepped aside. “Please. Come in. Just keep your voice low. My son is sleeping.”
Bryce placed the wrapped present under the tree, then turned to me. “I hope the doorbell didn’t wake him.”
“He’s a pretty heavy sleeper overall, and I don’t hear him. So, I think we’re good.” I exhaled. “How on Earth did you find me?”