A Family For Christmas

Timmy pressed his nose against the icy window, his breath making little clouds on the glass. The snow outside fell quietly, soft and sparkly, like tiny feathers floating down from the stars. Across the street, Christmas lights blinked in red, green, and blue, their colors dancing on the frost-covered pane. He rubbed at the foggy glass with his sleeve, clearing a little patch so he could see better.

His reflection faintly stared back at him, all freckled cheeks and big, tired eyes. His sandy brown hair stuck out in messy tufts, flattened on one side from where he’d been lying on his bed earlier. His pale skin looked even paler in the cold glow of the snow, and the threadbare sweater he wore—two sizes too small—itched at the cuffs, but he didn’t have the heart to take it off.

Behind him, the room felt too big and too quiet. The radiator in the corner clicked and hissed, puffing out just enough warmth to keep the chill from biting. His bed, a narrow cot, sat unmade, the faded blanket tangled at the foot. It smelled faintly of dust and laundry detergent, the kind they used in big tubs down the hall. On the wall above it hung a paper snowman, its once-bright smile now sagging where the tape had peeled away. From the hallway came faint echoes—laughter, footsteps, the clatter of a board game—but they sounded far away, like they belonged to another world.

Timmy shifted, his fingers curling into the hem of his sweater as he stared out at the snow. “Maybe this year,” he thought, clenching his fists tighter, the fabric bunching in his small hands. “Maybe this time, someone will pick me.”

He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the cold glass, letting the picture in his head come alive again. The mom would come first, with a soft sweater that smelled like cookies and hugs so tight they’d make all the empty places inside him feel full. She’d hum Christmas songs while stirring hot cocoa, and she’d always give him the big mug with extra marshmallows. “Here you go, Timmy,” she’d say, smiling in that way only moms could. “This one’s just for you.”

And there’d be a dad, too. He’d be tall and strong, with hands big enough to lift Timmy high into the air. His laugh would be loud and warm, the kind that made you feel safe, and he’d never get mad when Timmy asked too many questions. “That’s how you learn, buddy,” he’d say, ruffling Timmy’s hair before showing him how to fix a squeaky bike or hammer in a nail the right way.

Timmy smiled a little, rubbing his sweater sleeve against his cheek as he thought about the dad’s big laugh. But it wouldn’t just be them. There’d be a brother, too—someone older but not too much older, maybe twelve. They’d race outside in the snow, flinging snowballs at each other until their hands were too cold to move. The brother would tackle him to the ground and laugh, saying, “You’re terrible at this!” but then he’d help Timmy up, dusting the snow off his coat.

Maybe there’d even be a secret handshake, Timmy thought, his smile growing wider. They’d make one up—something cool, with fist bumps and spins—and use it when no one else was looking, like they were part of some secret club.

And there’d be a sister, too. A little one with pigtails and a squeaky giggle. She’d steal his crayons and hide them in her room, grinning when he came to look for them. “It’s ‘cause I love you!” she’d say, and Timmy would roll his eyes, pretending to be mad. But when she hugged him, her tiny arms squeezing tight, he wouldn’t be mad at all.

The tree in their house would be huge, so tall it almost touched the ceiling, with shiny ornaments and blinking lights like the ones in the movies. And under the tree? There’d be presents. Real ones. Not the ones wrapped in plain paper from the group home. These would have his name on them. To Timmy.

“What would I even want?” he wondered aloud, his voice barely a whisper. “Maybe Legos. Or a bike. Or one of those Nerf guns with the darts that stick to the walls.” He paused, clutching his sweater tighter. “Or maybe just…a hug.”

The sound of distant laughter floated from the hallway again, pulling him back. Timmy opened his eyes, blinking quickly as the lights outside blurred. He wiped at his cheeks with his sleeve, scrubbing away the tears before they could fall. His chest felt tight, like the hope inside him was too heavy to carry, but he didn’t let go of it. Not yet.

“Please,” he whispered silently in his head, his small hand pressing flat against the cold window. “Please let them come this time. Please let someone want me.”

The radiator clicked again, the only sound in the empty room. But Timmy didn’t move. He stayed by the window, staring at the snow, because maybe, just maybe, this Christmas, his dream would come true.