“Thank you.” I yanked the ribbon off the counter and looked at the tailor for a few moments in silence. “How much do I need to pay?”

“Nothing. It’s just a ribbon. I am about to close the shop, just go home, Rudolph.” He shrugged, his eyes half-closed. I smiled at him and scurried to the door but I made sure to wish him a merry Christmas. Once I was back in the frozen streets of town, it had grown darker and I relied on the lights from the shops to guide me home. The streetlights had yet to be fixed.

I shuffled back into our little house and took a moment to process the sweet warmth before going down the hall. Ben remained cooped up miserably in his room. I retired to my own room and fell asleep immediately after I made contact with the mattress.

On Christmas day, I made pancakes for breakfast and attempted to offer them to Ben, though he claimed to hate my cooking because it wasn’t like our mother’s. I took the pink ribbon out from my bedside drawer and placed it in a tiny box. Ben was already in the parlor staring at our tree that I had to decorate all by myself. I shoved the box in his face and watched as his hateful eyes met mine.

“What?” He huffed as he took the box into his own hand. “It’s tiny.”

“Open it. Please? Don’t do what you did last year.” Last Christmas when I got him a gift, he threw it away without opening it. I’d spent the last of my savings on that one. Thankfully I didn’t make that mistake this year.

He reluctantly opened it and stared down at the pink ribbon in tense silence. He gingerly picked it up and continued to just stare at it.

“Well?”

He jumped up and threw his arms around me; something I had not felt since he was little. He only uttered a few, tiny words:

“Thank you, Rudolph. I’m sorry for every terrible Christmas.”