The stillness in my home has been oppressive and oppressive for twenty years. It’s the kind of quiet that signifies the absence of a future rather than merely the absence of sound. My life was destroyed in one terrible December twenty years ago. The sterile, fluorescent chill of a hospital room and a doctor’s voice sweetened by professional sympathy took the place of the kicking when I was five months pregnant. When I returned home, I found a nursery full of tiny onesies that would never fit a child and painted a bright, mocking yellow.
The man who had vowed to support me through good times and bad stared at the floor a week later, unwilling to confront the pathetic representation of the woman I had become. I can still feel the cowardice in his voice as he whispered, “I need a family.” “And I no longer see one here.” I was left with a body that the doctors stated was too scarred to ever support another life when he filed for divorce three days later. I was suddenly a ghost in my own skin because he wanted “real” kids.
I stopped living that first Christmas without them and just endured. To keep the neighbors from hearing me cry, I hid in the shower. I spent my days like a passenger in a dying car, surviving on tea and toast. I discovered I was completely out of staples a few days prior to the holiday. I needed the warmth of a cup of tea to keep me grounded, even if I didn’t want to eat.
The corner supermarket was a holiday joy sensory overload. The aisles were crowded with people giggling over wine bottles and cookie platters, and the air had a cinnamon and pine scent. In order to suppress my emotions, I stood in the checkout line, holding a cheap box of tea, and looking at the scratched floor. That’s when I heard her, a young girl, maybe five years old, with a tiny scar over one face and a twisted ponytail.
“Do you think Santa will bring me a doll this year, Mommy?” She inquired.
Her mother knelt down to her daughter’s level, her eyes red and tired. My chest ached from the care with which she touched the girl’s hair. “Oh, my dear,” she muttered. “I received a letter from Santa. He claimed that this year he ran out of money.
The young child did not cry. A five-year-old should never have that kind of quiet, sorrowful acceptance, yet she simply nodded. Suddenly, a dormant mother instinct that had been suppressed by sadness surged up inside of me. I hurried, leaving my tea on the counter. I hurried to the toy section and took a bunch of candy canes, a stuffed teddy bear, and the last doll on the rack. As a precaution, I added an orange and an apple.
With shaking hands, I made the purchase and hurried into the parking lot. They were about to cross the street when I caught them. “Hold on!” Breathless, I cried out. As I knelt on the chilly, salted concrete, the mother appeared surprised and possibly a little suspicious.
I tried to maintain my composure as I told the girl, “I’m one of Santa’s elves.” “To keep an eye on things, we dress like average folks. Santa sent me to find you even though he broke his piggy bank today. He claimed that this year, you have been the world’s most courageous and admirable girl.
The first lovely sound I had heard in months was the girl’s ecstatic cry. For a brief moment, I felt a child’s weight against my heart as she put her arms around my neck. A “thank you” that sounded like a prayer was uttered by her mother. Even though it was only a brief theatrical performance, it offered me my first real breath of fresh air since the hospital.
Twenty years went by. While the world changed, I mostly stayed the same. The few men I dated never quite made it to the point where I was still broken, and I never had another child. Eventually, Christmases were reduced to a modest, meaningless tree and a glass of wine as I occupied my time with quiet work and hefty books. However, I will always remember that young girl. Every December, I pondered whether she still owned the doll or if the “elf” was only a fever dream from her early years that she only vaguely remembered.
There came a knock on my door this Christmas Eve, breaking the silence. I didn’t anticipate a soul. I opened it and saw a young woman wearing a bright red coat. With a faint, silver line of scar on her cheek and a familiar gleam in her eyes, she appeared to be around twenty-five years old. Before my intellect recognized her, my heart did.
“I’m not sure if you remember me,” she whispered quietly. “However, I do remember you.”
“Mia?” I muttered the name, even though I had never heard of it before.
She grinned and said, “You recognized the scar.” “When I was four years old, I got it after falling off a tricycle.” She gazed at me with a deep, quiet focus. Would you please accompany me? My mom has been eager to meet you once more for a very long time.
I didn’t think twice. After 45 minutes of driving, we arrived at a stunning, light-filled mansion that exuded a coziness that my own home had not had in twenty years. Mia’s mother slept in bed upstairs in a chamber that smelled of cedar and lavender, her eyes still bright despite her thinning from illness.
The woman clasped my hand and said, “You saved me that night,” in a weak rasp. “I was a widow with two jobs and a mountain of debt. My daughter has nothing from me. However, you offered us hope. I was reminded that there was kindness by you.
She clarified that she had the willpower to start over after that Christmas. She started creating dolls out of leftover fabric, selling them online, and eventually creating a toy empire that grew over time. She remarked, “It developed from that one doll you gave her.” “It turned into a legacy for us.”
She then revealed the secret that completely altered my life. She gripped my palm with unexpected firmness and murmured, “I’m dying.” Cancer in stage four. I’ve been making sure everything is in order for the past week. I don’t want you to be by yourself in that quiet house, and I don’t want Mia to run this company alone. I would like you to join our family. You are now a partner of mine. Remain here. Assist Mia in continuing.
That’s when I broke. I wept for the husband who abandoned me, for the child I lost, and for the twenty years I had spent alone. I cried primarily because the cosmos felt compelled to answer a tiny act of compassion with a forest of love.
Two weeks later, Mia’s mother died quietly, but she didn’t abandon me. That was the house I stayed in. I discovered the company that was founded on the compassion of a complete stranger. I got to know the workers and the families whose lives had been impacted by the toys that Mia’s mother had created.
I believed my life was over twenty years ago since I was unable to become a mother. I was mistaken. All I was doing was waiting to be included in a story that I hadn’t written yet. I came to see that kindness serves as a lighthouse for the giver, finally leading them home when they are lost in the dark, and it not just saves the recipient. The house isn’t silent this Christmas for the first time in twenty years. It is alive with the noises of life, and I am at last home for the first time.