“That’s great news!” I lean closer, acting like it’s a really big deal. “Carrots aren’t a reindeer's favorite snack.”
“What?” she gasps. “But Sven eats Olaf’s nose!”
“They still like them. Usually, I tell kids ahead of time, but since it’s Christmas Eve, I already made an early delivery. They really love apples, cranberries, and raisins. Can you make sure to leave out some for Blitzen?”
Her breath shakes out. “Blitzen is coming tonight? He’s my favorite.”
“He always helps,” I say. “I’m honored to meet you, Phoebe, but I have a long night ahead of me.”
I shift to stand, but she hesitates, chewing on her lip. For a second, she looks exactly like a tiny version of her mom.
She glances over her shoulder, then back to me.
“Can I ask you something?”
This has veered off track, and the familiar script I saw my dad deliver and shape over the years vanishes before me.
“Sure,” I tell her. “But we have to make it quick. Okay? Kids across the world are waiting for me.”
She nods and climbs higher on my lap, then cups her hand around her mouth. “Do you give presents to mommies?”
My mouth goes dry. “Well, that’s usually up to the daddies.”
“Because she’s not a kid anymore?”
I glance up, looking for Chloe. This isn’t familiar, and I don’t want to be responsible for messing up Santa lore.
“Phoebe,” I keep my voice quiet, but low. “Can you tell me what you’re really asking?”
“My mom works so hard,” she whispers. “She got married, and we now live here at the farm, so I think maybe she can work less.”
I nod, encouraging her.
“I sort of spent my allowance at the book fair, but I bet Elsa could fly to the North Pole and bring her back something? She could take a note.”
Just when I think I can’t love this child more.
“What do you think I should ask Elsa to get her?” I ask.
Her mouth twists in concentration. “She only ever buys work stuff. Or stuff for me.” She shrugs. “She likes blankets, and purple like me. You know what stuff Mom’s like, right?”
“I can figure something out.” I nod.
She throws her arms around me again and squeezes.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice muffled by my fake beard. “Please don’t forget, okay?”
“I won’t forget.”
She runs toward everyone, and I meet Chloe’s eyes over her head. “Thank you,” she mouths. “I love you.”
I make my way toward the back door so I can sneak out while Phoebe is excitedly relaying most of our conversation. The house creaks like it’s settling around us.
I glance back toward the din of voices drifting from the living room.
And for the first time all season, I let myself think it:
This is what Christmas is supposed to feel like.
