An unexpected gift from a Secret Santa arrived,

Wrapped in silver foil, its edges neatly tied.

No name, no hint, no clue to be found,

Just a mystery tucked in, its secrets unbound.

But this wasn’t a gift I’d wished to see,

For the gift wasn’t really meant for me.

A child’s wish, unspoken and deep,

To mend the bond that sorrow keeps.

The story begins with a boy, aged nine,

Dreaming of things he dared not define.

Not toys or treasures wrapped in bows,

But something rare that seldom shows.

His parents lived in a house of ice,

Their words sharp-edged, never nice.

He’d heard them laugh in years now past,

But warmth like that could never last.

So when the school held its yearly cheer,

And Secret Santa time drew near,

The boy wrote down his only plea:

“Make my parents love, just once, for me.”

On Christmas Eve, with the world alight,

He stayed awake deep into the night.

The gift had come, but wrong it seemed—

Not love, just paper and a silver gleam.

“Santa made a mistake,” he said aloud,

And he vowed to fix it, brave and proud.

He packed his bag, his coat zipped tight,

And ventured out in the snow’s pale light.

He journeyed through woods and frosted hills,

Past frozen streams and silent mills.

The stars above, his only guide,

He clutched the gift he wished to chide.

The forest whispered, “Turn back, dear boy,”

But he pressed on, driven, not coy.

Each step a hope, each breath a prayer,

That Santa would listen and repair.

At last he came to a glowing glade,

Where the air was warm and the frost did fade.

There stood Santa, his coat of red,

Eyes twinkling bright, his smile widespread.

The boy held up the silver-wrapped box,

His voice steady, despite the knocks.

“This isn’t the gift I wanted,” he said.

“I asked for love, not this instead.”

Santa knelt, his gaze intent,

On the child whose courage was unbent.

“What you seek, my dear, is not mine to give,

For love is a choice, a way to live.”

The boy’s heart sank, his hope now small,

But Santa continued, gentle through all.

“This gift you hold is a spark, a key,

A way to find what love could be.”

“Take it home, write what you feel,

Your fears, your dreams, the wounds to heal.

And leave it where their eyes might see,

For love begins in vulnerability.”

The boy hesitated, unsure but moved,

By words so wise, by faith improved.

He thanked old Santa, then turned away,

Hoping for change come Christmas Day.

Back home he crept, the house still cold,

The air as sharp as a tale retold.

He opened the book, the pen in hand,

And poured out thoughts he could barely withstand.

“Dear Mom and Dad,” the letter began,

“I wish you knew how much I plan.

Not for toys or games, but just one night,

To see you both bathed in love’s light.”

He left the book upon the table,

Hoping its words might make them able.

Then crept to bed, his heart in his throat,

Dreaming of peace, the words he wrote.

Morning broke, the house aglow,

But not with warmth he yearned to know.

His parents sat, the journal in hand,

Their faces unreadable, hard to withstand.

“We saw your gift,” his mother said,

Her voice a tremor, her eyes widespread.

“And we’re sorry for the way things are,

For letting love drift so very far.”

For one sweet day, they laughed, they played,

The icy walls began to fade.

The boy’s heart soared, his wish come true,

A glimpse of love he always knew.

But love’s a fire that needs to feed,

And sometimes it falters, despite the need.

The days moved on, the chill returned,

And the boy’s heart silently yearned.

One evening he found the book on a shelf,

Unread, forgotten, a ghost of himself.

The words he wrote, the hope he shared,

Now met with silence, the weight too bared.

As the years passed, the boy grew wise,

But something lingered behind his eyes.

A lesson learned, but wounds that stayed,

The cost of love, a debt unpaid.

And on Christmas Eve, now grown and tall,

He stood alone in an empty hall.

A silver box in his trembling hand,

A gift for ghosts he could not withstand.

The laughter faded, the spark grew dim,

A child’s wish now buried within.

He placed the box beneath the tree,

A tribute to what could never be.

An unexpected gift from a Secret Santa arrived,

Wrapped in silver foil, its edges neatly tied.

Not for joy, but for bittersweet grace,

A reminder of love’s fleeting embrace.

And though the boy’s wish was bittersweet,

He carried its ache with steady feet.

For in his heart, he now could see,

That love begins with vulnerability.

But not all hearts choose to stay,

And some loves melt, then drift away.

The gift remained, a memory stark,

Of a fleeting flame in a house gone dark.

amanda kleitz

@ajkleitz

amanda kleitz has not written a story.