My Wish For Christmas

CHAPTER 2

My house looked just as it always did—weathered but sturdy, a relic of another time. It had belonged to my father when he was alive, and now, somehow, it belonged to me. The place was nothing fancy—a modest two-story with peeling paint and windows that rattled when the wind howled—but it was home.

Maintaining the house was one of those things that felt like…me. It was a tie to my father, to the life we had before everything fell apart. He had worked so hard to keep this place standing, patching up the roof when it leaked, fixing the creaky stairs for the hundredth time. Now it was my job.

I fumbled with my keys, my fingers stiff from the cold. “Come on,” I muttered, finally getting the door unlocked. I pushed it open, and the familiar creak welcomed me like an old friend.

“I’m home,” I called out into the empty house, my voice echoing softly in the quiet. Of course, there was no answer. There hadn’t been in years, but it still felt right to say it. Like the house itself needed to hear it.

The air inside was cold, and I shivered as I kicked off my boots, leaving them on the mat by the door. Snow clung to the edges of my coat and dress, and I peeled them off as quickly as I could, draping them over the back of a chair to dry. My wings, now slightly bent and glitter-streaked, joined the pile.

The first thing I wanted was a bath. My body ached from hours of kneeling, bending, and pretending to be magical for the kids. Not that I minded—it was just exhausting in ways I couldn’t explain. I headed upstairs, tugging my costume off as I went.

The bathroom was small but functional, with tiles that had seen better days and a mirror that always fogged up, no matter how small the steam. I started the water, waiting for it to heat up while I dug through the cabinet for some bubble bath.

Finally, I slid into the tub, letting out a long sigh as the hot water soaked into my skin. The stress of the day melted away bit by bit, the ache in my back easing. My mind, however, wasn’t so easily quieted.

It wandered, as it always did when I was alone like this. To my dad, to the times we had spent in this house together. He used to light the fireplace in the evenings, filling the living room with warmth and the smell of burning wood. We would sit on the old couch, wrapped in blankets, and he would tell me stories about the world before I was born.

Now the fireplace sat cold and empty most nights. I didn’t light it often—it felt too much like trying to replicate something that could never be the same.

After a while, I climbed out of the tub, toweling off and slipping into my coziest pair of pajamas. I padded downstairs, the wooden floorboards creaking under my feet.

The kitchen was small but welcoming, with mismatched cabinets and a fridge covered in old magnets. I rummaged through the fridge, pulling out some leftovers and reheating them in the microwave.

As I sat at the table, eating my makeshift dinner, my eyes drifted to the stack of bills sitting on the counter. Heating, water, the mortgage—every piece of paper seemed to scream pay me now.

“Great,” I muttered to myself, pushing the pile aside. I would deal with it tomorrow.

After dinner, I wandered into the living room. The Christmas tree stood in the corner, its branches a little sparse, but decorated with the same ornaments I had used since I was a kid. Some were handmade, with clumsy handwriting and uneven edges, while others were from the dollar store. None of it matched, but that was part of the charm.

I flicked on the string lights, and the room glowed softly. For a moment, I just stood there, taking it in. The warmth of the lights, the memories tied to each ornament—it made the house feel a little less empty.

But the silence pressed in, heavier than the snow outside. I grabbed a blanket from the couch and wrapped it around myself, sinking into the worn cushions.

My mind drifted to the party, to the kids and their wishes. A puppy. A dollhouse. A race car track. Their excitement was contagious, but it also left me feeling…hollow. I didn’t have anyone to share that kind of magic with. No family, no partner, no kids. Just me and this old house.

And my job? Well, dressing up as a fairy wasn’t exactly what I had dreamed of as a kid. But it paid the bills. Barely.

I glanced at the clock—it was nearly midnight. The snow was still coming down outside, and I could hear the faint sound of wind whistling through the cracks in the windows.

Pulling the blanket tighter, I leaned back and closed my eyes. For a moment, I imagined what it would be like to have someone here with me. Someone to share the quiet moments, to laugh with, to make this house feel alive again.

But that was just a fantasy.

The real world was waiting, and tomorrow would be another day of glitter, wings, and wishes.

I sighed, dragging myself off the couch and heading upstairs. The bed was cold when I climbed in, and I curled up under the blankets, letting the hum of the heater lull me to sleep.

Tomorrow, I would do it all over again. Because that’s what life was—showing up, doing the work, and finding the little bits of magic wherever you could.