Page 3 of Bought By Santa

“More like a Sterling family disaster.” My response is playful, but a pang of loss accompanies the memory.

A wistful, almost sad, expression takes over my sister’s beautiful face. “Mom would have loved this tree,” Willow says softly, her gaze fixed on the miniature angel perched atop the fir.

It’s impossible not to feel our orphan status extra hard around Christmas. Where Dad died a heroic death, Mom’s was anything but. After we lost Dad, she turned to drugs and alcohol, completely giving up on being a mom.

The accident happened just before my eighteenth birthday, my last year of high school. But when Mom peaced out on her duties, I had to step up. I dropped out of school and took whatever jobs I could get to support myself and Will. Mom used whatever little money Dad and the insurance left us to support her new habits, so it was up to me to get the money to pay for Will’s special needs treatments, and find a facility she could live in.

It hurts me to the core that I can’t live with my sister, but none of the places I can afford are wheelchair friendly. Trust me, I’ve done extensive research. But no matter how much I looked and begged for the calculator to give me the results I wanted, there was no way I could afford her medical bills, a sufficient home, and feed the both of us. So, a home was the only affordable solution.

Looking at my sister, it’s clear she misses our parents. I’ve always done my best to shield her from how cruel our mom became. “Hey, don’t look so sad, Will,” I chirp, forcing my tone to sound extra happy. “Shedoeslove it. You know they’re here with us, in spirit.” It’s a line I’ve recited every holiday season since the accident, a mantra to soothe the ache of absence.

“Sometimes, I can almost hear her singing carols,” Willow whispers, her smile tinged with nostalgia. She reaches out, her fingers dancing over a red bauble adorned with glittering snowflakes—a remnant from childhood Christmases that somehow survived the years.

“Well,” I say, hesitantly, taking my sister’s hand. “We can go caroling if you want.”

Will scrunches up her face. “Har har, you know I’m tone deaf. You’re the one named after the tradition so you should do it.”

She isn’t wrong. Mom’s water broke while she and Dad were caroling on December thirteenth almost twenty-seven years ago, which is how I earned my name. Most people think it’s because I was conceived in one of the Carolina states, but nope. Luckily, that’s not the story accompanying my name.

The room seems to hold its breath, the air thick with unspoken words and memories that cling like cobwebs. We are the last Sterlings, clinging to each other in a world that has been anything but kind.

“Caro, promise me something?” Willow’s brown eyes lock onto mine, earnest and searching.

“Anything, Will.”

“Promise we’ll always find a way to keep our traditions alive. No matter what.”

My heart clenches, a vise of responsibility tightening around it. The thought of failing her, of watching the light in her eyes dim because I couldn’t keep our world afloat, terrifies me more than anything else.

“Always,” I say, and I mean it with every fiber of my being. Because in the end, it’s not the money or the desperation that defines us. It’s the love between two sisters, fighting against the cruelty of life.

Although it takes most of the afternoon, because Will has made me change the placement of everything a thousand timesover, I finally place the last ornament. A bright red bauble which catches the soft glow of the fairy lights.

I step back, the scent of pine and cinnamon wrapping around me like a warm hug. The twinkling lights cast dancing shadows on Willow’s face, illuminating her wide smile that’s as comforting as it is heartbreaking.

“Looks perfect,” I murmur, my chest swelling with a pride that momentarily eases the gnawing anxiety lodged deep in my belly.

“Better than perfect—magical,” she insists, her voice ringing with a joy that belies her confinement to the wheelchair. The accident may have stolen her mobility, but not her spirit.

I bend down, plugging in the small electric kettle by her bedside. “Hot chocolate?” I offer, even though it’s more statement than question. Tradition dictates it, and heaven knows we cling to those.

“Yes, please,” she replies, her anticipation palpable as I mix the cocoa powder and marshmallows into the steaming water. We sip our drinks, the sweetness of chocolate and the burn of heat a sharp contrast to the chill seeping through the windowpane.

“Caro…” Willow begins, her tone shifting, “You’ll come back soon, right?”

“Of course,” I answer too quickly, the lie bitter on my tongue. Each visit costs something I can barely afford—time, money, hope—but I push that aside, focusing on the warmth spreading through my fingers from the ceramic mug.

“Good. It’s just not the same without you,” she says softly, gripping my hand.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Will,” I say, my voice thick with unshed tears. We finish our hot chocolate, and I clean up, leaving no trace of our little celebration except for the lingering scent of cocoa. “But hey, you’re all set for December first now. Maybe Santa will visit you this year.”

When we were kids, we always decorated the Christmas tree on December first, it was the Sterling family tradition. But now, we’ve changed that to the last day of November. Willow insists it makes more sense, and frankly, I kind of agree.

“Love you, Caro,” Willow calls out as I head for the door, the nickname tugging at my heartstrings.

“Love you more,” I reply with a half-hearted smile and slip out into the cold.

Back in the silent confines of my small studio, the once merry jingles of Christmas music now sound mocking. Bills are strewn across the kitchen table like a deck of cards dealt by fate—a losing hand. I sit, the weight of numbers and overdue notices pressing down on me.

---