Christmas was my favorite time of year, though not so much for Ben. He said it reminded him too much of our parents. Every Christmas since we lost them, he was miserable and refused to have anything to do with it. He never even wanted to help me decorate the cottage. I at first thought it was because he was a teenager and was naturally just being moody, but his refusals were getting exhausting.

“You never help. Just this once?” I begged as I was leaned up against his bedroom door.

“I don’t feel good. Maybe later.” His voice was muffled and quivering.

“You said that last Christmas!”

“Well, I still don’t feel good.”

Giving up, I walked back to the living room and stared at the undecorated tree. A box full of lights and ornaments were on the floor below it. I used to have Ben’s help when he was little. But that wasn’t him anymore. I looked over at the dining room table and noticed the little bit of cash I had forgotten about. He said he didn’t want a gift this year–the same thing he said last year, the year before that, the year before that, and so on.

But who was I to let a teenager tell me what to do? I was going to get him something this year. I yanked my coat and my scarf from the rack and hurriedly put them on, slightly tangling the old scarf.

“I’m going out!” I called. After no response, I grabbed the cash and rushed outside into the snow that covered our little town.