It Was Christmas When My Wife Died Giving Birth – Ten Years Later, a Stranger Came to My Door with a Devastating Demand

The days blurred together, wrapped in our routines.

That morning, my son, Liam, sat at the kitchen table in the same chair Katie used to lean against when she made cinnamon tea. Her photo sat on the mantel in a blue frame, her smile caught mid-laugh, like someone had just said something ridiculously amusing.

I didn’t need to look at the photo to remember it. I saw Katie in Liam every day, in the way he tilted his head when he was thinking.

Liam, almost ten now, is long-legged, thoughtful, still young enough to believe in Santa, and old enough to ask questions that made me pause before answering.

“Dad,” he asked, not looking up from the LEGO blocks he had arranged beside his cereal bowl, “do you think Santa gets tired of peanut butter cookies?”

“Tired?

Of cookies?” I asked, lowering my mug and leaning against the counter. “I don’t think that’s possible, son.”

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