Twenty Years Ago, I Played Santa for a Little Girl – This Christmas, She Came Back for Me

Men either left too soon or stayed too long without ever really seeing me.

I filled my life with books, quiet nights, and part-time jobs that paid the bills but never filled the void.

Christmases grew quieter over the years, pared down to a small tree when I remembered, one gift for myself, and a glass of wine if I felt brave enough to pretend.

But that little girl never left my memory.

I thought about her every December, wondering if she still had that doll, if she remembered the stranger who pretended to be Santa’s elf.

On Christmas Eve, I sat down to a quiet dinner with one plate, a fork, and a candle flickering gently between them when I heard a knock. I wasn’t expecting anyone. Not even the mail.

I opened the door and stopped breathing for a second.

A young woman stood there, maybe 25, wearing a red coat. The scar on her cheek was faint, but my heart already knew.

“I don’t know if you remember me,” she said, voice gentle. “But I remember you.”

I stared in disbelief.

She smiled. “I still have this scar. I got it falling off a tricycle when I was four.

Hit the corner of our porch steps. My mom was terrified, but it healed. It’s how most people recognize me.”

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