Page 87 of Daddy's Little Christmas

“We’re not leaving yet,” he assured me. “We’ll switch to handing out kits soon. Different rhythm. If it gets too much, you tell me.That’s not quitting. That’s taking care of yourself so you can keep helping next time.”

I nodded, chewing on my thumbnail before I remembered that was a habit I was trying to break. I folded my arms instead.

He reached out and tugged my hand gently away from my mouth. “Hey,” he said softly. “You’re doing really well, Rudy. I’m proud of you.”

The words landed like a warm weight in my chest. I swallowed around them. “Thank you,” I said, voice small.

“Finish your sandwich,” he said. “Then we’ll go find Maribel.”

The afternoon was for “Warm Winter Kits.” That’s what the sign said in the hallway, written in bright letters and surrounded by hand-drawn snowflakes.

We stood behind a long table near the back of the hall, where the crowd thinned a bit. Each kit was a reusable tote filled with socks, gloves, a knit hat, hand warmers, a travel-size bottle of lotion, and a pack of tissues. A small card was tucked inside: You matter. You are not forgotten.

I picked one up and ran my fingers over the words.

“Tom’s mom wrote that,” Graeme murmured near my ear. “She passed a few years back, but Maribel prints them every year. Tradition.”

My throat got tight again. “She sounds like she was… fierce.”

“She was,” he said. “She’d have adopted the whole town if she could.”

We handed out bags to people as they came by, no questions asked. Some smiled shyly. Some joked. A few looked suspicious, like they were waiting for the catch. There wasn’t one.

A woman about my age, her hair pulled into a messy bun under a hat, took her bag and paused. “You’re new,” she said to me.

“Yeah,” I said. “First time.”

She studied my face for a second. I tried not to fidget.

“Hope we don’t scare you off,” she said. “Some people don’t come back.”

“I think…” I glanced at Graeme. “I think I’ll want to.”

She gave a crooked smile. “Good.” Then she moved on.

Time blurred again. My world narrowed to the repetition—smile, hand over bag, “Here you go. Happy holidays.” The words started to feel thin in my mouth, stretched over everything I couldn’t fix for these people.

At some point a kid joined the end of the line with no adult. Maybe twelve. Maybe younger. Oversized hoodie, jeans too short at the ankles, no gloves. Their cheeks were raw from the cold, nose red, eyes wary.

I felt something deep inside me lurch.

“Hi,” I said softly when they stepped forward. “I’m Rudy. What’s your name?”

They hesitated. “Jay,” they muttered.

“Hi, Jay.” I slid a bag toward them. “This one’s for you, okay?”

They stared at the tote but didn’t take it. “Do I gotta… sign something?”

“Nope,” I said quickly. “No forms. Just… stuff that’s yours.”

Slowly, they reached out and grabbed the handles. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

They turned to walk away, then paused, eyes flicking back to me. “Um. I like your shirt.”

I glanced down at my navy sweater with the little embroidered snowflakes. “Thanks. I like your hoodie.”