Page 32 of Daddy's Little Christmas

“Good,” he said. “It shouldn’t be nothing.”

Something warm loosened behind my ribs. I took another sip, buying myself a second.

I stirred the soup just to have something to look at. “I, um… thank you.”

The spoon clinked softly against the bowl.

“Rudy,” he murmured.

Something about the way he said my name made the room feel smaller. Not a trap—closer.

“Yeah?”

“You came back to the store for a reason.” His voice was warm, with no assumptions tucked inside it. “When you’re ready, you can tell me why.”

A breath left me before I realized I’d been holding it.

“There’s… a part of me,” I said slowly. “Um…”

Graeme didn’t interrupt. Didn’t fill the silence with encouragement.

So I tried again.

“There’s a part of me that’s always been there. Since I was a kid. And I’ve spent most of my life trying to hide it.”

The words felt strange in my mouth—like they weren’t supposed to exist anywhere but inside my head.

Graeme’s posture didn’t change. His face didn’t flicker. He only waited, the way someone waits for a delicate ornament to settle on a branch.

I took a breath and let the truth come.

“I’m… a little,” I said softly. “Not because I’m overwhelmed or scared. It’s not a reaction. It’s just… me. The real me. And I’ve tried so hard to make it disappear.”

My voice shook. The spoon rattled against the bowl.

Graeme leaned forward slightly—not closing the space, just letting me know he was listening.

“My parents were teenagers when they had me,” I said. “They were addicts long before I understood what that meant. Idon’t remember much affection. Mostly I remember noise. Arguments. Being cold because no one noticed I needed a jacket.”

My fingers curled around the spoon.

“They overdosed when I was small,” I added. “It was years apart. By the time I was old enough to understand what had happened, I was already used to people disappearing.”

Graeme’s face stayed open.

“I spent most of my childhood in foster care,” I said. “Different houses. Different rules. Different versions of what I was allowed to be. Some were fine. Some weren’t. Most of them made it very clear I wasn’t meant to stay.”

I swallowed.

“Then I landed Mrs. Davis.”

The name felt solid in my mouth.

“She was my foster mother,” I said. “But she was… more than that. She chose me. Every day. She loved me without conditions. Not for being quiet or behaving. Just for being hers.”

My chest tightened as the memories pressed closer.

“She used to tell me that I never really got a chance to be a kid,” I went on. “That I grew up too fast. That I didn’t get soft things when I was small, so I deserved them now. All of them. No guilt or shame.” I let out a shaky breath. “She said there was nothing wrong with needing comfort. That it didn’t mean I was broken.”