“That’s not very Santa-like.”
“I know that too.”
“She insisted on coming here to tell you this.” Lila looks over at me apologetically.
Ellen climbs up on the bench next to me, swinging her legs. “Grandma says when people are mean, it’s usually because they’re scared or sad inside.”
“Your grandma’s a smart lady.”
“Are you scared or sad?”
Both. Definitely both.
“Ellen, stop interrogating him,” Lila says.
I lift a hand as if to signal it’s okay. “Maybe a little scared.”
“Of what?”
How do you explain grown-up fears to a six-year-old? How do you tell a kid that sometimes loving someone feels as if you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing the fall might kill you?
“I’m scared I’ll disappoint people. That I’ll mess up Christmas.”
“But you already messed up,” she points out with devastating logic. “And Christmas is still happening.”
Out of the mouths of babes strikes again.
“Besides,” she continues, “Mads isn’t people. She’s Mads. And she likes you even when you’re grumpy.”
Liked. Past tense. After tonight, I’m pretty sure she’s done trying to find the good in my grumpy exterior.
“Ellen, what if you really wanted something, but you were afraid you might break it?”
She considers this seriously. “When I wanted to hold baby Emma at Mom’s friend’s house?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“Mama said if I was careful and gentle, I could hold her. And if I was too scared to try, I’d never get to find out how soft babies are.” She looks up at me. “But you have to want to be careful more than you want to be safe.”
This kid should be writing greeting cards.
“Do you want to be careful with Mads more than you want to be safe from her?”
The answer comes without hesitation. Yes. I want to hold her heart as if it’s precious. I want to deserve her sunshine.
But want and deserve are two different things.
“She might not give me another chance, Ellen.”
“She might. You won’t know unless you try.” She hops down from the bench. “Besides, it’s almost Christmas. And Christmas is for second chances.”
She says it as if she’s quoting something, and I remember the Mrs. Claus letter Mads showed me. The one about opening hearts and trusting in Christmas magic.
Maybe it’s time I stopped being such a skeptic.
“Ellen? You still think I can be Santa?”
“If you stop being scared and start being careful.” She grins. “And if you apologize to Mads. Santa doesn’t make girls cry.”
