Santa had been in top form too, delighting every child who came to visit him. I had watched from across the lot as he listened patiently to Christmas wishes, posed for countless photos, and made what I was sure would become core memories for dozens of kids. One little girl had been so overcome with shyness that she’d hidden behind her mother’s legs for ten minutes before finally working up the courage to whisper herChristmas wish in Santa’s ear. The look of pure joy on her face when he promised to see what he could do was exactly why we did this.
It had been a day full of small wins, and I was choosing to focus on those instead of the larger picture that still looked pretty bleak.
I wasn’t naive. I knew the whole operation was in trouble. Every year the numbers got progressively worse. Every year we hoped next year would be better. It was pretty clear that was never going to happen. The days of real trees and rustic Christmas vacations were a thing of the past.
The majority of other lodges and farms like ours figured that out five years ago. We were hanging on by our fingernails. It wasn’t going to work. Just like manual transmissions, we were out. No longer what consumers wanted.
I trudged up the hill to the main house, my boots crunching through the fresh snow that had been falling on and off all day. It was weird not to have my dad on the farm. Usually, he was running around talking to everyone and giving his opinion on which tree would look best in their house.
That was just another sign of change. They were really getting out of the game. It was wild to think that was what we had been waiting and hoping for for years. And now that it happened, I could admit I missed them bossing me around.
A little.
I could see the familiar silhouettes of my parents moving around inside the house we had grown up in. It was far enough away from the lodge for privacy but close enough Dad could jump in to handle a problem should it arise.
That was back when we had a full staff and a packed lodge. Those kinds of emergencies were few and far between nowadays. With Brom and Stacy living in the lodge in the private quarters, Brom was the guy to handle things.
I found them both in the living room, settled into their respective evening routines with the comfortable ease of a couple who’d been together for over thirty years. Mom was in her favorite armchair, bent over what looked like needlework, while Dad was stretched out in his recliner with a crossword puzzle book balanced on his chest.
“Hey, you two,” I said, kicking off my snowy boots by the door and padding into the room in my socks.
“Sylvie, sweetheart!” Mom looked up from her work and smiled, though I could see the fatigue around her eyes that had become more pronounced over the past few months. “How did today go?”
I glanced at what she was working on and felt a tug of emotion in my chest. She was carefully repairing the stitching on one of our old Christmas stockings—Brom’s, from the looks of the faded blue and green pattern I remembered from childhood.
The stockings were so old they couldn’t hold much of anything, or it would fall right out the bottom. But they were cute. And tradition. Maybe that was why I was so reluctant to let go of the farm that I knew was dying. I was so steeped in tradition. It was the way I grew up.
Maybe it was time for a change. Maybe it was time to let the farm die peacefully.
“I’ve been meaning to fix these for years,” Mom said, pulling my attention back from the spiral. “Now that I’m not running around the farm all day, I finally have time to take care of the little things I’ve been putting off.”
There was something wistful in her voice that made my throat tight. Mom had always been a woman in motion, bustling around the property, managing guests, overseeing the kitchen, and making sure every detail of the lodge operation ran smoothly. Seeing her relegated to mending old stockings while the business she’d helped build struggled to survive felt wrong.
Even if that was what she wanted. I didn’t like the idea of them getting old. If they stepped back, it meant they were getting old. I was so not ready to deal with that kind of trauma.
“I’ll put on some tea,” she said, setting aside her needlework and getting up from her chair. “You look like you could use something warm.”
Dad set down his crossword puzzle and muted the television, where “It’s a Wonderful Life” was playing for what had to be the hundredth time this season. George Bailey was in the middle of his breakdown, screaming at his family on Christmas Eve. I found the timing uncomfortably appropriate.
“So,” Dad said, giving me his full attention in that deliberate way that meant he was preparing for a serious conversation. “How many trees did we sell today?”
“Twenty-three,” I said, trying to inject some enthusiasm into my voice. “That’s a lot better than yesterday. And the customers we did have seemed really happy with their experience.”
Dad nodded slowly, but I could see he was doing the math in his head, comparing today’s numbers to what they should have been.
“Twenty-three trees,” he repeated. “That’s what we used to sell in the first hour on a Saturday during peak season.”
The words stung. Like a needle to a balloon deflating the small sense of accomplishment I’d been carrying. I knew our numbers were bad, but hearing it put in perspective like that made the reality impossible to ignore.
“Today’s good day was the worst sales day of the year ten years ago,” Dad continued, his voice matter of fact but not unkind. “We’re not just struggling, sweetheart. We’re failing.”
I opened my mouth to argue, to point out all the positive aspects of the day, but the words died in my throat. He was right, and we both knew it. Twenty-three trees might feel like progress compared to yesterday’s disaster, but it was nowhere nearsustainable for a two-hundred-acre operation with the overhead costs we were carrying.
I sat down heavily on the couch, suddenly feeling every ache and pain from the day’s physical labor. “I know,” I said quietly. “I just don’t know what else to do.”
Mom returned with a tea tray, and the familiar ritual of pouring and serving gave us all something to focus on that wasn’t the slow-motion collapse of our family business. She settled back into her chair with her own cup and picked up the conversation where we’d left off.
“Well, we can’t solve everything tonight,” she said with forced cheer. “Speaking of which, are you planning to go to the Christmas market in town? I know Stacy and the kids are excited about it.”
