Page 101 of Daddy's Little Christmas

The urge to put the pan down and go hold him was strong. I gripped the spatula instead. “You’ve made a good start,” I said.

He hopped off the counter to set the table, bare feet silent on the wood floor. He moved through my kitchen like he’d been doing it for years, not mere days. Every time he opened a cupboardand reached for the right shelf without asking, something in me ached in a way I didn’t have words for.

We ate at the small table by the window, plates warm, fingers sticky with syrup. Snow fell in slow, thick flakes outside, turning the world into a soft blur of white and gray.

“This is the best French toast I’ve had that didn’t come from a brunch place with a one-hour wait,” he said around a mouthful. “And there’s no one here to judge how many pieces I eat.”

“I would never judge you for French toast consumption.”

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m having another one.”

I watched him reach for the platter, watched the way he closed his eyes on the first bite, savoring it like it was something rare.

It hit me then, sudden and sharp: this is the last time I’ll watch him do this here. In my kitchen. At this table. With snow falling like this outside that window.

I looked away before the thought could dig its claws in too deep.

After brunch, we migrated to the living room. The fire was already going, low and steady. The couch had become ours over the past week—movie nights, cocoa, little moments layered on top of each other until the cushions felt shaped to us.

Rudy dropped onto it with an exaggerated sigh. “I should be doing something productive,” he said. “Packing the car. Planning my route. Being a responsible adult.”

“You checked out of the inn,” I said. “Your stuff’s already in the car. You worked in the shop. You’re done. You’ve officially achieved Responsible Adult for the day.”

He tilted his head back, eyes on the ceiling. “I hate that you’re right.”

“Then don’t argue,” I said. “Come here.”

He scooted over until he was tucked against my side, his head finding that familiar hollow under my shoulder. My arm went around him automatically. He let out a long breath that felt like it had been trapped in him for years.

We didn’t talk for a while.

The fire popped occasionally. The wind rattled softly against the eaves. Somewhere in the distance, a snowplow grumbled down the road.

Rudy’s fingers traced idle patterns on my thigh—circles, lines, little loops. Not restless. Just… there.

“You know,” he said eventually, voice quiet, “I used to hate Christmas.”

I looked down at him. His gaze was on the fire, lashes casting small shadows on his cheeks.

“Yeah?” I asked. “Why?”

He huffed a laugh that didn’t have much humor in it. “Besides birthdays, it was my least favorite time of year. All the commercials and lights and songs about joy and families. It always felt like… like a party the whole world was invited to except me.”

My hand tightened on his shoulder. I stayed quiet.

“In most of the houses I lived in,” he said, “Christmas meant more fighting. More stress. A couple of times it meant nothing at all—no lights, no special food, just another day where everyone was tired and sharp and I tried to stay out of the way.”

He paused. Swallowed. The fire reflected in his eyes.

“When I got older,” he went on, “I told myself I didn’t care. That I was above it. ‘Oh, Christmas is commercialized nonsense anyway.’” He mimicked his younger self with a wry little twist of his mouth. “But it still hurt. Even when you tell yourself you don’t want something, you know?”

I did know.

He picked at a loose thread on my sweater. “Mrs. Davis was the first person who made Christmas feel… like something I got to participate in. We didn’t have much. But she baked cookies. We had a slightly crooked little tree with lopsided ornaments. She made hot chocolate from scratch. She asked me what I wanted to do that would feel special. For a while, it felt like I’d finally gotten into the party.” His voice softened. “When she died, it felt like getting uninvited all over again.”

“Rudy,” I murmured.

He shook his head. “This isn’t a pity party. I just…” He hesitated, then looked up at me, eyes bright in a way that made my chest ache. “This is the first Christmas since her that I’ve felt like I belonged somewhere. Like I wasn’t just looking in through the window while everyone else had fun inside.”