The nights felt so long when he wasn’t there.
And he’d be fine. And he’d be here soon. But… a wife worried.
She should’ve been in bed hours ago, but she couldn’t sleep when he wasn’t around. So she stayed at the kitchen table, his dinner in the oven, a glass of wine in her hand, hoping he’d make it home in time for Christmas.
Her heart stopped as bells jingled outside the window.
And then he was through the door: huge, red and snow-flecked, that beard she wanted to bury herself in.
“Happy Christmas, honey,” Santa said. “I’m back.”
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