Page 85 of Daddy's Little Christmas

I sat close enough that our shoulders brushed, his hand resting on my thigh when the road was straight.

“What was it like?” I asked, watching trees blur past. “The first time you went to The Hearth.”

He exhaled slowly. “Humbling,” he said. “I was… twenty. Angry at the world. Still trying to figure out what to do with my life after my parents died, and Tom’s mom dragged us there.”

“Tom as in Sheriff Tom?” I asked.

“The very same. Back then he was a rookie deputy. Thought he knew everything.” His mouth quirked faintly. “His mom made us put on Santa hats and hand out bags of socks and thermal shirts. I thought I was doing the world a favor showing up.”

“What changed?” I asked softly.

“I realized I could have been on the other side of the table,” he said simply. “One wrong turn. One bad break. If Dad hadn’t had life insurance, if Mom hadn’t had friends… I don’t know where I’d have landed.”

I swallowed hard. That hit too close to home.

I thought of the first night I’d been taken from my birth parents’ apartment, the way the social worker’s face had looked sad and tired and unsurprised. I thought of every couch I’d slept on, every new bedroom that smelled wrong. I had never been on the street, not really. Never gone more than a day without a meal. But that was luck. Mrs. Davis. A handful of good people.

It could’ve gone another way.

The ache in my chest sharpened. I stared out the window at a cluster of houses, Christmas lights still blinking cheerfully on their eaves. “I want to help,” I said quietly. “I want to be one of the good people.”

Graeme’s fingers squeezed my thigh, solid and grounding. “You already are, Rudy.”

My throat burned. I pretended to cough and looked back out the window, blinking away the sting.

The Hearth sat on a side street in Maplewood, housed in a low brick building with big front windows and a faded mural of hands holding a flame. The A in Hearth was painted as a stylized heart. Warm light spilled out onto the snow. A steady stream of people came and went—some bundled in layers, some in thin jackets that weren’t nearly enough for the weather.

Graeme parked around back in the volunteers’ lot. As soon as we stepped out of the truck, the cold bit at my cheeks and nose. The air smelled like exhaust, frying onions, and something sweet—maybe cinnamon.

Inside, the center buzzed with organized chaos. Coats were piled on a rack by the door. Volunteers moved between tables, carrying trays and stacks of paper cups. The big hall was filled with long folding tables covered in red plastic cloths. Garlands hung along the walls. A fake tree stood in the corner, its lights blinking unevenly.

The sound hit me first—voices overlapping, kids laughing, someone coughing, a radio playing Christmas songs from a speaker near the front. It pressed against me in a way that felt both alive and overwhelming.

Graeme slipped his hand into mine and gave a small squeeze. “Breathe,” he murmured. “In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

I nodded, matching my breath to his for a moment.

A woman in a knit beanie and a “VOLUNTEER COORDINATOR” lanyard spotted us and came over, smiling wide.

“Graeme!” she said, wiping her hands on her apron before pulling him into a quick hug. “You’re here. I was starting to worry the snow ate you.”

“Morning, Maribel,” he said, hugging her back. “Wouldn’t miss it. This is Rudy.”

Her attention shifted to me, warm and unapologetically direct. “Hi, Rudy. First time?”

“Yeah,” I said, suddenly very aware of my own breath in this big room. “I, uh, wanted to help.”

“Well, we’re thrilled to have you,” she said. “You with Graeme, you’re in good hands. He’s practically furniture here.”

He huffed. “That’s one way to show appreciation.”

She laughed, then handed us each an apron, a name tag and a pair of disposable gloves. “We’re serving hot lunch until two. Then we switch over to distributing care kits. Graeme, you okay taking the serving line for the first shift?”

“Absolutely,” he said.

“What about me?” I asked, tying my apron clumsily behind my back.

“You can partner with him,” Maribel said. “He’ll show you the ropes. If it gets to be too much, we can switch you to the kitchen or to packing bags in the back. Some people prefer being behind the scenes.”