A Christmas That Froze More Than the Snow
I went home for Christmas expecting the usual things—awkward small talk, too much food, and cheap hot chocolate that tasted more like warm water than chocolate. I did not expect my past to walk up to me, point a mittened finger at my face, and blow my life wide open.
I’m 32. Single. And this was my first Christmas back in my hometown in more than five years.
It happened at one of those picture-perfect Christmas markets downtown. The kind that looks like it was designed for postcards. White lights hanging everywhere. Wooden stalls selling ornaments and candles. Kids running around with red cheeks and sticky hands. The air smelled like cinnamon, sugar, and sharp winter cold.
I was wandering around with a paper cup of hot chocolate, trying to feel nostalgic instead of sick to my stomach, when I heard a small gasp behind me.
“That’s him.”
The voice was tiny, but clear. Too clear.
I turned.
“Sweetie, don’t point.”
A little girl stood in front of a stall full of glass ornaments. She wore a red knit hat pulled down over dark hair, serious dark eyes staring straight at me. Her mittens dangled from strings on her sleeves.
Across from her stood a woman with long, raspberry-colored hair. Her back was to me.
Her mom.
“Sweetie, don’t point,” the woman said again, this time low and tense.
But the girl stepped closer, studying my face like she was solving a puzzle.
“You’re the man my mom cries about at night.”
Everything in my head shut down.
“I… I think you’ve got me mixed up with someone else,” I said, forcing out a laugh that sounded wrong even to my own ears.
The girl frowned, offended. “No. I know your face. I’ve seen it in her drawer.”
The woman froze.
Slowly, like she was afraid of what she’d see, she turned around.
And my stomach dropped.
June.
The girl I sat next to in math class. The one who passed me stupid doodles and folded heart notes. The one I was sure I’d marry back when I thought love alone could pay rent.
Seeing her under those Christmas lights felt like someone cracked open my ribs and let the cold pour in.
She grabbed the girl’s hand, like she needed something solid to stay upright.
“I told myself I’d never see you again,” June said quietly.
“Yeah,” I managed. “Same.”
The girl looked between us. “Mom?”
June swallowed. “Hazel, go look at the snow globes,” she said gently. “I’ll be right here.”
Hazel hesitated, then wandered to the next table, still sneaking glances at me.
We stood there like strangers who knew way too much about each other.
“How long are you in town?” June asked.
“How old is she?” I asked at the same time.
She paused. I glanced at Hazel again. Something in the way she tilted her head made my chest tighten.
“Five,” June said.
Five.
I left six years ago.
My voice shook. “Whose is she?”
June’s jaw clenched. “Not here,” she said. “Please. Not like this.”
“Then when?”
“Tomorrow,” she said. “Eleven. The café across from the high school. Come alone.”
“The one with the terrible coffee?” I said.
Her mouth twitched. “Yeah. That one.”
“I’ll be there.”
She nodded. “Hazel, time to go!”
Hazel ran back, grabbed her hand, and as they walked away, she looked back at me like she was trying to memorize my face.
I stood there holding cold hot chocolate, the word five pounding in my head like a drum.
I barely slept.
My parents asked if I was okay. I lied. Said it was travel. Work. Anything.
In my old room, the glow-in-the-dark stars were still stuck to the ceiling. In the bottom drawer, under old shirts, I found a picture of me and June at prom.
I flipped it over.
She wore a pale blue dress her mom hated. I wore a rented tux that didn’t quite fit. We looked certain we’d spend our whole lives together.
We didn’t end in cheating or screaming.
“I don’t love you anymore.”
She sat on my bed, hands folded in her lap, and said it like she was reading a line she’d practiced.
I begged. Called. Showed up at her house. Her dad finally opened the door one night and said, “Leave her alone, son. She’s moved on. You should too.”
So I left town.
At exactly eleven the next morning, June walked into the café.
Same squeaky door. Same chipped tables. Same chalkboard sign with cappucino spelled wrong.
My hands shook around my coffee.
She looked tired. Raspberry hair in a messy bun. Dark circles under her eyes. And still—somehow—the same girl.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hi,” I replied, then blurted, “Is she mine?”
Her eyes filled instantly.
“Yes.”
The word hit like a punch.
“So I have a daughter,” I said slowly, “and you never told me.”
“I didn’t know at first,” she said. “I found out a few weeks before we broke up. My parents reacted badly.”
“They said if I stayed with you, they’d cut me off,” she said. “No tuition. No money. No help. They called you ‘dead weight.’”
“That tracks,” I said bitterly.
“They had a guy from church they wanted me to marry,” she went on. “Older. Stable. Willing to ‘step in.’”
“Did you?” I asked.
“I tried,” she said. “But I chose Hazel.”
“You still didn’t call me.”
“I was scared,” she whispered. “I told myself I was protecting you.”
“What does Hazel know?”
“That her dad isn’t here because I hurt him.”
That hurt more than I expected.
“She found your pictures,” June added. “She asks why I cry when I look at you.”
“You still cry about me?” I asked.
“More than I should,” she said.
I stared at my coffee. “I’m angry.”
“You should be,” she said. “I stole five years from you. From her.”
“Do you want me in her life?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “If you walk away, I’ll live with that forever.”
“I want to meet her,” I said. “As her dad.”
Her mouth fell open. “She’s with my neighbor. We can go.”
Her apartment was small and messy and full of crayons and toys.
“So this is Daniel,” her neighbor said. “Yeah. The kid looks like him.”
June tapped on a door. “Hey, bug. I brought someone to meet you.”
Hazel looked up from coloring a dinosaur.
“It’s you,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s me.”
June sat on the bed. “This is Daniel,” she said. “He’s your dad.”
Hazel studied me. “My real dad?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m your dad.”
“Why weren’t you here?”
“I didn’t know about you,” I said. “If I had, I would’ve been.”
She thought about that. “Do you like dinosaurs?”
“I love dinosaurs,” I said. “I wanted to be a paleontologist.”
“That’s the bone one!” she said.
She stepped closer. “Can I hug you?”
My throat closed.
“Please,” I whispered.
She hugged me carefully, like she wasn’t sure yet.
“Can I call you Dad?” she asked into my sweater.
“Yeah,” I said. “You can.”
We spent hours on the floor. Dinosaurs everywhere. June watched from the doorway, hope and fear written all over her face.
When Hazel fell asleep, June walked me to the door.
“Do you hate me?” she asked.
“I’m furious,” I said. “But I don’t hate you.”
“I never stopped loving you,” she whispered.
“Same,” I said.
Outside, the Christmas lights blurred.
I don’t know if June and I will ever work again.
But I do know this—
I’m not running anymore.