“You shouldn’t spend Christmas Eve alone,” I said finally. “Why don’t you come to our place for dinner?”
“Oh, honey,” she said quickly. “That’s very kind, but I couldn’t possibly—”
“I know I’m a stranger. But my name is Clara, and I have a daughter. She’s sitting in the car right now. She’s seven, and her name is Sophie. And she loves Christmas more than anything. We’ve got mashed potatoes, ham, and paper snowflakes just for Santa. There’s more than enough love to go around.”
She blinked at me, stunned.
“I’ll write down the address, Ruth,” I said, reading her name tag as I scribbled on the back of the receipt.
She accepted the paper carefully, holding it as if it might dissolve.
Driving home, Sophie hummed along to the radio, her voice rising and falling with the carols. I glanced at her in the rearview mirror, her face glowing in the dashboard light, singing as if she didn’t have a care in the world.
“Who’s coming for dinner, Mom?” she asked, cradling her stuffed reindeer like it was made of glass. “Someone I know?”
“No, sweetheart,” I said. “But she’s a friend. And she’s someone who could use some company tonight. She needs some love and care and all the Christmas joy we can give her.”
“A Christmas guest? Like in the movies?” Sophie exclaimed, eyes lighting up.
“Exactly like that,” I said, smiling, even as a quiet flicker of doubt rose in my chest.
When we got home, I moved through the kitchen like I was trying to outrun my thoughts. I reheated the ham, mashed the potatoes, and pulled the apple pie from the freezer. Sophie danced around the dining table, folding paper snowflakes and taping them together into a long garland she laid carefully down the center.
I changed into jeans and a soft sweater, wiped down the counters, and lit two candles at the table. For a moment, it felt almost festive—like Christmases from my childhood.
At 6:45 p.m., I checked the window.
At 7 p.m., I smoothed the napkins.
At 7:30 p.m., I put the pie in the oven.
By 8 p.m., Sophie had set a third plate and placed her reindeer on the chair beside it.
“She’ll come, right?” Sophie asked, peering at the door.
“I hope so, baby,” I said lightly. “Maybe she’s just running late with her job at the store.”
At 9 p.m., the pie burned slightly at the edges. Still, no knock came.
“Maybe she forgot,” Sophie said quietly, staring at her snowflakes.
“Maybe,” I said softly. “Or maybe she couldn’t find her way here. But it’s getting late, baby chicken. Come on, let’s eat. We can always save some for Ruth.”
We ate anyway. The food tasted fine, but my heart wasn’t in it. The candles flickered, shadows dancing across the table, cinnamon lingering in the air.
