I kept Bart completely out of frame, using angles that showed the wish lists and wrapped gifts but not him.
"If you want to help, here's how." I held up a flyer with the QR code. "Donate through this link—your contribution will be matched dollar-for-dollar. Or volunteer to help wrap and deliver gifts on the 24th. This is what the season is really about. Community coming together."
I filmed several versions, edited the best clips together, and added text overlays. Then I carefully selected family stories from the collected letters—making sure to keep details anonymous with permission that Bart had already secured.
Posted across both platforms at 2 PM.
Within an hour, the engagement exploded.
Donations started flooding in. People sharing the posts. Comments from locals wanting to volunteer. Messages from families asking how to submit wish lists.
I refreshed the donation tracker and nearly dropped my phone.
"Bart." My voice came out shaky. "Look at this."
He came over, and I showed him the screen. $2,847 in donations. In one hour.
"That's..." He shook his head, his expression unguarded for just a moment. "That's incredible."
"People want to help," I said softly. "They just needed to know how."
My follower count had climbed to 545,000—nearly 13,000 new followers since launching the campaign. The validation I used to crave felt hollow compared to watching those donation numbers climb.
The comments were genuinely positive. Supportive. Moved.
@mountainmamalife:This program is incredible. Just donated $100.
@hopepeak_native:I want to volunteer! How do I sign up?
@sarahwrites:Crying happy tears. This is what the season should be.
Bart read over my shoulder, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him. "You did this."
"We did this."
He met my eyes, and the moment stretched between us. Neither of us looked away first.
Then my phone buzzed with another donation notification, breaking the spell.
"We should update the wish list count," I said, my voice slightly breathless. "I'm getting messages from new families."
"Yeah. Good idea."
But neither of us moved for another few seconds.
THAT EVENING, BARTcalled me while I was reviewing footage at the cottage.
"The Thompsons reached out," he said without preamble. "Gerald and Laurel—they’re the ones who oversee the annual holiday market. They're offering us booth space if we want it. Prime location by the tree."
"That's perfect! We could collect more wish lists, sign up volunteers—"
"I can't be front and center," he said quickly. "Too visible."
"I'll handle it. You can stay in the background, help set up."
He was quiet for a moment. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure. This is too good an opportunity to pass up."
