Page 99 of Daddy's Little Christmas

The guests clinked glasses. Warmth rippled through the room.

Tom looked at her like she hung the stars. “She’s the best thing I ever did,” he said. “And I’m grateful every day she didn’t run screaming the moment she met my family.”

Laughter. A few affectionate groans.

Cynthia nudged him. “You’re the best thing I ever did too.” Then she added, to the room, “Thank you all for loving us the way you do—and for showing up, year after year.”

More toasts followed—gentle teasing, memories of their early dating days, jokes about Tom nearly missing his ownwedding because his truck refused to start that morning. The kind of stories that let you see the bones of a marriage, not just the shine.

I looked at Graeme.

He was smiling—soft, proud, a little nostalgic.

He glanced at me and his expression changed into something warmer. Something that reached straight into my chest and squeezed.

Dinner was easy. Conversation light. Someone put on quiet Christmas jazz. A couple of guests brought out gifts for Tom and Cynthia—handmade ornaments, a framed photo from a camping trip.

I helped pass around plates and refill drinks without thinking too hard about it. It felt… natural. Like stepping into a room where my place had already been saved.

At one point, Cynthia leaned toward me while the others talked.

“He’s different with you,” she said quietly, nodding toward Graeme at the other end of the table.

My breath caught. “Different how?”

“Lighter,” she said simply. “And I’ve known that man since we were knee-high to a snowbank.”

My heart tipped sideways.

Later, after cake and more stories and a heated debate over whether colored lights or warm white ones were superior (Graeme and I both voted white—Cynthia declared us boring), Tom dug out an old photo album.

They showed pictures of Graeme and Tom as kids sledding down a hill. A teenage Graeme leaning awkwardly against a basketballhoop Tom and Cynthia's first Christmas together after they got married. A young Cynthia holding a pie proudly despite a disastrously burnt crust.

I laughed more than I expected. Graeme teased Tom. Tom teased Graeme. It felt like watching the roots of a life spread out on the table.

And for one impossible second, I wanted to belong to all of it—not as a guest or a visitor passing through, but as someone who stayed.

I didn’t say it out loud. Wanting didn’t make it true, and I’d learned a long time ago not to ask for things that didn’t come with guarantees.

Eventually, the night began to wind down. People collected coats. Cynthia hugged everyone twice.

Tom squeezed Graeme’s shoulder. Then he pulled me into a hug that startled me, strong and sincere.

“Come back anytime,” he said. “You’re family now.”

My throat went tight. I managed a nod.

Outside, the cold was crisp, bright, almost holy. Snowflakes clung to my eyelashes. Graeme’s fingers threaded through mine, warm and sure.

He didn’t ask if I was okay. He didn’t ask what I was thinking. He just kept my hand in his until we reached the truck, and somehow that said more than any question could.

The drive home was quiet, but not empty. The kind of quiet that held meaning simply because he was there and I was there and that was enough.

Inside his house, the woodstove still radiated leftover heat. He fed it one of the logs we’d chopped yesterday, and sparks leapt upward like fireflies.

I changed into my reindeer jammies without thinking twice—my body choosing comfort the way flowers chose sunlight. I grabbed my reindeer plush and padded back to the living room where the fire glowed gold.

Graeme sat on the rug and opened his arms. “Come here,” he said, gentle as breath.