Three months after my divorce, I promised my five-year-old that Christmas would still feel like Christmas. Then I came home one night and found our decorations destroyed. The first thing that felt wrong was the silence.
Not soft, snowy quiet. Dead quiet. I pulled into the driveway and just stared.
My Christmas lights were gone. Not crooked. Not half out.
Gone. The roof was bare. The porch rails were empty.
The wreath I’d wired to the front column was missing. The plastic candy canes that had lined the sidewalk were snapped and tossed in a pile by the bushes. Even the white twinkle lights I’d wrapped around the maple were ripped down, leaving scraped bark.
In the middle of the yard lay my long green extension cord. Cut clean in half. I’m 47.
Recently divorced. Single mom. I’ve learned to “stay calm” like it’s a side hustle.
But my chest went hot so fast it scared me. We’d moved into this house three months earlier, after the divorce. New school for my five-year-old, Ella.
New routines. New everything. I’d promised her one thing:
So every night after work, I’d been out here with numb fingers, fighting stupid plastic clips along the gutters.
My nose running, my toes cold, my patience thin. Ella “helped” by handing me ornaments and giving orders. “This one is shy, Mom.
Put her in the middle. This one needs friends. Don’t leave him alone.” And always: “Christmas has to sparkle.
That’s the rule.”
Finally, our “sparkle” looked like trash day. I walked up the path in a daze. Broken plastic crunched under my boots.
Near the bottom step, I saw a red shard of salt dough. Ella’s ornament. The one with her thumbprint from preschool.
Cracked in half. My throat closed. I pulled my phone out, thumb hovering over the dial screen.
I wasn’t sure if this was 911 or “angry call to the non-emergency number,” but I was ready for something. Then I saw it. Sitting on the top step like someone had set it there with care.
A small wooden angel. Clip-on type. Carved wings.
Simple painted face. I hadn’t put it there. I hadn’t even unpacked that box yet.
Cold prickled along my arms. That’s when I saw the muddy boot prints. They started at the porch column where the wreath had been, went down the steps, across the sidewalk… Straight toward my neighbor’s driveway.
Of course. Marlene. Her mailbox says “MARLENE” in old metal letters that look like they’ve been there since the ’70s.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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