„Mama powiedziała, że ​​Mikołaj znowu o nas zapomniał…” — powiedział chłopiec samotnemu miliarderowi na przystanku autobusowym w Boże Narodzenie…

Anna uśmiechnęła się na tyle, żeby powstrzymać ciężar. „Ale wciąż się dla niego staram”.

I w tej cichej, oświetlonej śniegiem kuchni, coś niewypowiedzianego się między nimi wydarzyło — dwoje ludzi złamanych w różny sposób, ale złamanych tak samo.

Stara sztuczna choinka stała niezgrabnie w kącie schowka, lekko przechylona na bok. Jej metalowe gałęzie składały się jak zapomniane wspomnienie. Kurz oblepiał każdą jej część, a sznur połamanych lampek zwisał z góry niczym zwiędła wstążka.

Jaime sięgnął po nią obiema rękami, szeroko otwierając oczy z ekscytacji. „Panie Marku!” – zawołał. „Czy mogę pomóc w jej udekorowaniu?”

Mark zawahał się w drzwiach kuchni, wpatrując się w drzewo, którego nie widział od lat. Przez chwilę nic nie powiedział. Dom zdawał się zastygnąć w oczekiwaniu.

Potem skinął głową. „Tylko raz”.

Jaime krzyknął z radości i zwrócił się do matki. „Mamo!”

„Tak” – odpowiedziała Anna cicho.

Anna spojrzała na Marka uważnie, jakby sprawdzała, czy mówi poważnie. Ponownie skinął lekko głową, tym razem z lekkim cieniem uśmiechu.

Soon, the living room filled with the sound of boxes being opened and laughter echoing off the high ceilings. Jaime sat cross-legged on the floor, pulling out tangled garlands and ornaments shaped like stars, snowflakes, and tiny red mittens.

Anna knelt beside him, wiping dust from an old tree skirt with the sleeve of her coat. She glanced up at Mark, who stood behind them—silent, but not withdrawn.

“You sure about this?” she asked gently.

He shrugged. “Maybe it’s time.”

Together, they unfolded the tree and began adjusting the branches. It leaned, but Jaime didn’t seem to mind. To him, it was perfect.

He dug deeper into the box and pulled out a hand-painted ornament—a small wooden reindeer with a name scribbled in faded gold glitter.

“Emily.”

Mark froze.

Jaime looked up, holding it in his palm. “Was this your daughter’s?”

Mark nodded slowly, his voice caught in his throat. “Yes. She made it in school. Second grade.”

Jaime smiled and held it out with both hands. “Do you want me to hang it?”

Mark stepped forward. He took the ornament, stared at it a long moment, then knelt down beside Jaime.

“Go ahead,” he said quietly.

Jaime rose to his toes and carefully placed it on the highest branch he could reach. “Looks like the most important one,” he declared proudly.

Anna watched the exchange in silence. Her eyes were damp, but her smile was soft.

A few minutes later, Jaime found an old music box in the bottom of the bin. It was chipped, the paint faded, but when he twisted the key, it still played a simple, familiar tune.

Soft notes filled the room.

“Silent night,” Jaime began to hum along. Then, without fear or hesitation, he started to sing. “Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright.”

The melody echoed gently through the house. His voice was clear—young, but carried an odd maturity, like he understood exactly what the song meant, even if he couldn’t say it.

Mark stood frozen near the window. The sound hit him like a wave. That same song, his daughter’s favorite, was the last thing she sang to him over the phone that Christmas Eve, just before they left home to surprise him.

His throat tightened. He didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Tears welled in his eyes, and before he could stop them, they spilled freely. He didn’t bother to hide them.

Anna looked up and saw him standing there—trembling, undone. She didn’t speak.

Jaime kept singing.

When the song ended, the room fell into a tender silence. No one moved for a few seconds.

Then Jaime turned to Mark, eyes wide with curiosity. “Do you miss her a lot?”

Mark wiped his eyes. “Every day.”

Jaime nodded solemnly, then dug into the box again. He pulled out a small wrapped bundle—an old toy, a stuffed bear with a frayed ribbon.

Mark smiled faintly. “She loved that one.”

Jaime held it carefully, then hugged it against his chest. “Can I keep it? Just for tonight?”

Mark looked at him, heart swelling. “Yes. You can.”

Jaime beamed. “So Santa remembered me this time, huh?”

Mark chuckled through his tears. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I think he did.”

The scent of tea drifted softly through the kitchen, mingling with the quiet hum of the old heater. The house was still, but for the first time in years, it did not feel empty.

In the warm light of morning, the cold edges of Mark’s home had softened.

Anna stood at the sink, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, carefully rinsing out the mugs they had used the night before. Her blonde hair was tied back, a few strands falling loosely around her face. She moved with practiced grace—quiet and calm—as if cleaning someone else’s home was something she’d done a hundred times before.

Mark stood nearby, uncertain. He shifted from foot to foot, then slowly stepped forward.

“I can help,” he offered awkwardly.

Anna looked over her shoulder, surprised. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

He glanced at the dish towel hanging on the hook and grabbed it. “Just tell me what not to break.”

She laughed—a soft, real laugh—and handed him a clean plate to dry.

They stood side by side at the counter, passing dishes in comfortable silence.

Mark glanced at her, then said, “Jaime seems happy here.”

Anna nodded. “He’s a good kid. A lot better than I deserve.”

Mark raised an eyebrow. “Don’t say that.”

She shrugged. “I mean, I try. I really do. But sometimes I feel like I’m just… keeping things from falling apart day to day. Bus to bus.”

He was quiet for a moment, then said, “You’re doing more than that. I’ve only known you a day, but it’s clear. He looks at you like you’re the world.”

Anna smiled, looking down at the mug in her hands. “Thanks. That means a lot.”

Mark dried another plate slower this time. Then, almost hesitantly, he asked, “If you had the chance, would you start over?”

She paused, thoughtful. “You mean, like go back?”

“No,” he said. “I mean, from where you are now—if someone offered you a way to rebuild—would you take it?”

Anna leaned back against the counter. Her eyes, usually guarded, softened.

“I used to have dreams,” she said. “I was in school—psychology. I wanted to help kids. Kids like Jaime, actually. I wanted to be someone who listened.”

“What happened?”

“I got pregnant.” She let out a breath—not bitter, just matter-of-fact. “My parents cut me off. I dropped out, worked three jobs, slept on a friend’s couch until I could afford a one-bedroom.”

Mark listened, hands still.

Anna continued, “I guess now my dream is just to keep Jaime safe. Warm. Maybe someday he’ll dream big because I didn’t get to.”

There was a long pause.

Then Mark set the towel down. “I have a foundation,” he said quietly. “Small. Quiet. Mostly grants—education programs, mental health outreach…”

Anna looked confused.

“I could help,” he said, meeting her eyes. “Not just with school, with work. Real work. The kind that matters. There’s a branch of the foundation that focuses on early childhood trauma. It’s underfunded, understaffed. But someone like you—someone who understands what it feels like to be left behind…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

Anna stared at him, stunned. “Why would you do that for me?” she asked, voice almost a whisper.

Mark didn’t flinch. “Because you haven’t given up,” he said. “Even when it would have been easier. You still get up. You still smile for him. That kind of strength—it’s rare.”

She blinked. For a second, he thought she might cry, but she didn’t. She just looked at him long and searching.

“I don’t want your pity,” she said softly.

“This isn’t pity,” Mark replied, his voice steady. “This is recognition. And maybe redemption.”