Page 65 of Daddy's Little Christmas

The bookstore was only a few streets away, tucked between a florist and an antiques shop. A little painted sign over the door readThe Reading Nook, letters curling around a tiny open book and a stack of stars.

I squeezed his hand, smiling before I could stop myself.

“This,” I said. “This is a very good idea.”

He glanced down at me, eyes soft. “I thought you might think so.”

A bell chimed when we walked in. Inside, it was quiet in the way good bookstores always were—sound softened by shelves and paper and whispered conversations.

The air smelled like coffee and old pages and pine from a tree twined in white lights near the front.

“Hey, Graeme,” someone called from behind the counter.

They looked about my age, maybe a little younger, with a shaved head, silver hoops in both ears, and a forest-green sweater that readREAD GAY BOOKSin looping holiday script.

“Is it that time of year again?”

Graeme smiled, easy and familiar. “Something like that. Jules, this is Rudy. Rudy, Jules.”

“Welcome,” Jules said, not performative, just warm. “Fiction’s to the left, queer romance straight ahead, and the kids’ corner’s in the back where it’s quiet.”

“Thanks,” I said, already taking it all in.

Graeme’s hand brushed lightly against my elbow—barely there, but grounding. “We’ll start wherever you want.”

I nodded, though I wasn’t entirely sure where that was yet.

We moved together through the aisles, spines passing under my fingers. Essays. Memoirs. I slowed without meaning to when we reached the back corner.

The children’s section was small. Low shelves. A soft rug worn pale at the center. Picture books placed face-out, their covers bright and gentle and inviting in a way adult books rarely were.

Graeme paused beside me, didn’t comment or steered me away. Just stayed.

I crouched and let my fingers trail across titles. Lost mittens. Night skies. Bears who found their way home.

That was when I saw it.

All the Wishes I Didn’t Make.

The cover was washed in deep indigo and silver, a boy wrapped in a blanket on a rooftop, stars streaking overhead likesomething just missed. Beneath it, a small handwritten card rested against the shelf.

For the kid who grew up too fast—or the grown-up who didn’t get to be one.

— J

I picked the book up before I could think better of it.

The art inside was soft, almost luminous. On one page, the boy sat at a kitchen table, pen hovering over paper, shoulders drawn inward like he was trying to take up less space.

The text read:

Some kids wrote lists. I wrote nothing at all. I learned early not to ask.

My thumb traced the edge of the page. Not tight. Not sharp. Just… familiar.

I didn’t realize I’d lowered myself until the rug cushioned my weight and my balance shifted forward.

Graeme lowered himself beside me. “Find something?” he asked quietly.