On Christmas Eve, my son showed up to my parents’ door with a bag of presents.
My mom opened the door and said,
“We’re keeping it small this year. Only real family.”
Then she closed it.
He walked home alone.
I didn’t raise my voice.
I just made a few changes.
And within hours, my dad was blowing up my phone.
I wasn’t supposed to work Christmas Eve.
One of the newer nurses had begged for the day off to fly home and surprise her dad, and I said yes without really thinking it through. I figured I’d be home by 8:00 and we’d still have time to do our little traditions.
Matching pajamas.
Hot cocoa.
The same movie we always watch and make fun of like it’s the first time.
What I didn’t know was that while I was elbow-deep in charts and trying to calm down a combative patient who insisted the nurses were stealing his slippers, my fourteen-year-old son was getting dressed in his best clothes, slipping his savings into his jacket pocket, and walking three miles through the cold with a bag of hand-wrapped presents.
He had planned it weeks in advance.
He told me later he checked the bus schedule, but it wasn’t running that day.
So he walked.
And when he got there, after almost an hour in the wind, he knocked on their door with a hopeful smile and numb fingers.
He bought them things they’d like.
Not just cheap filler gifts.
I mean, he paid attention.
He got my mom the exact brand of lavender candle she always used to light in the kitchen. My dad’s gift was a vintage-style fishing hat from that outdoor store he loved but never wanted to spend money in.
And for my sister, he found this weird enamel pin shaped like a tomato can. It was an inside joke from when she used to babysit him.
He thought it would matter.
My mom opened the door, looked at him, looked at the bag, and said,
“We’re keeping it small this year. Only real family.”
Then she shut the door in his face.
He stood there for a minute, probably thinking it was a mistake.
Like maybe she’d come back.
Maybe she was joking.
But no one opened the door again.
No porch light flicked on.
No one called to check on him.
He walked home alone.
Didn’t call me.
Didn’t message.
Just walked.
I got home around 8:30, exhausted and ready to crash.
But there he was, curled up on the couch with his jacket still on, like he hadn’t even made it to his room.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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