Page 86 of Daddy's Little Christmas

I nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”

She squeezed my arm once, a quick, grounding touch, then was gone, swallowed up by the movement of the room.

Graeme adjusted the knot of my apron, fingers brushing my lower back. “How are we doing?” he asked softly.

“I’m okay,” I said honestly. “A little… whoa.” I made a vague gesture at the room. “But okay.”

“If that changes, you tell me,” he said quietly, eyes steady on mine. “No toughing it out to keep me happy. Deal?”

I wanted to say yes. The words stuck in my throat. I nodded instead.

He gave me a look that said he knew that wasn’t the same thing as a verbal deal, but he let it go. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s feed some people.”

We took our places behind the line of metal trays kept warm over burners. The smell made my stomach clench in a way that wasn’t hunger exactly—turkey stew, fresh bread, roasted vegetables, something apple-spiced. Comfort, basically, ladled into bowls.

Graeme handed me a ladle and showed me how big to make each portion. “You can greet people if you want,” he said. “Or just smile. Both matter.”

The first person in line was an older man with a thick gray beard and a knitted hat pulled low. His coat was worn but buttoned tight. His gloves didn’t match. He held his tray carefully, like he was afraid to drop it.

“Good morning,” Graeme said. “Merry Christmas.”

“Morning,” the man replied. His voice was gravelly. “Yesterday was Christmas.”

“We figure people deserve more than one day,” I blurted before my brain could stop my mouth.

The man blinked at me. Then, surprisingly, he chuckled. “Can’t argue with that, kid.” He tilted his tray. “Don’t be shy with that ladle.”

I smiled—and my hands remembered how to move. “You got it.”

Person after person stepped up. A woman with two little kids, their eyes huge and tired. A teenager with chipped black nail polish and a rainbow beanie who refused to meet my gaze when I said hello, but muttered a quiet “thanks” when I handed them their bowl. A man in a wheelchair. A woman wearing four scarves and no hat.

Some people smelled like soap and laundry detergent. Others like cigarettes or damp wool. One man had a scent that made my brain flash back to my birth father’s unwashed shirts, and my throat closed for a second. I swallowed it down and kept serving.

We worked steadily. At some point, Maribel put on a playlist of upbeat holiday songs. “Feliz Navidad” played, then “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” A few kids danced near the back. Someone clapped along.

I lost track of time, measuring the day in ladles and paper cups and thank-yous. My shoulders started to ache. My feet complained. My brain hummed with a low buzz from the noise.

But there was something… right about it. This was Christmas too—the version people didn’t post on Instagram. Lines and gratitude and tired faces lighting up at the taste of hot food.

I thought of Mrs. Davis, the way she’d kept a pot of soup on the stove whenever the weather dropped, “in case someone needs a bowl,” she’d always say. Neighborhood kids. Parents who werestruggling. A social worker who didn’t have time to eat between appointments.

She would’ve loved this place, I thought. She would’ve had me here from the minute I turned sixteen.

The thought stayed with me for a while.

We took a short break around one-thirty. Graeme gently steered me into the kitchen, where it was quieter. Someone had set up a table with coffee and sandwiches for volunteers. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The tile floor was streaked with melted snow.

“You must be thirsty by now,” Graeme said, handing me a bottle of water.

I took it automatically, only realizing then how dry my mouth felt. “Thanks.”

He watched me for a moment, not crowding, just paying attention. “How are you doing?” he asked softly. “Not the polite answer. The real one.”

“Oh.” I let the question settle. Checked in with my body. My mind. The slight tremor in my hands. The way the world felt a tiny bit louder than it should. “I’m… okay,” I said slowly. “Tired. A little floaty. But I want to stay.”

His gaze warmed, something approving and protective all at once. “That’s an honest answer,” he said. “Good.”

Pride flickered in my chest. “They’re still lining up,” I said. “I don’t want to leave when there’s so many people.”