On Christmas morning, my husband Carl and son Logan, 5, were about to start opening gifts. Everything seemed perfect. Until I noticed it.
Sitting under the tree, sparkling in golden wrapping paper, was a large present I hadn’t seen before. It definitely wasn’t there last night. Attached to it was an elegant handwritten note. “For Debra, with love. You’re my only one.”
I froze. The words hit me like a punch in the gut.
I snatched the box, holding up the note. “This. What the heck is this, Carl?”
But before Carl could say a word, Logan stepped in. “I helped Santa!” Logan blurted out. “I found it HIDDEN in Dad’s basement yesterday. I thought Santa forgot to put it under the tree, so I brought it up here at night.”
I turned to Carl, my heart pounding. “Logan found this in YOUR basement? Who’s Debra, Carl? And why is she your ONLY ONE?”
“Am-Amber,” Carl stammered. “Debra, she’s my… it’s not what you think —”
“Oh, I know exactly what I think,” I said as tears started trickling down my cheeks.
I cried. The man I trusted with everything had bought a gift for another woman.
“Mommy? Are you okay?” Logan asked innocently. “Did I do something bad?”
“No, sweetie. You didn’t do anything wrong. Go play with your new toy in the bedroom for a minute, okay?”
Logan hesitated but eventually ran off. I turned to Carl and looked at him with a serious expression.
“Explain,” I said. “Now.”
Carl looked like he’d just been caught in a lie he couldn’t talk his way out of.
“Debra,” he began, “is… my sister.”
“Your what?”
“My sister,” he repeated. “She d-ied when we were teenagers. I never told you about her because… it hurts too much.”
“Carl, I don’t understand,” I said. “Debra is your sister? But you never told me about her? And why would you hide a gift for her in the basement?”
“She d-ied just before Christmas, 15 years ago. It was a car acc:ident. She was on her way with Mom to buy me a Christmas gift… ice skates that I’d been dreaming about. A drunk driver hit their car, and she… she didn’t make it.”
I sank onto the couch beside him. “I’m so sorry, Carl. But why didn’t you ever tell me about her?”
“I didn’t know how,” he said. “Debra was my best friend. We didn’t have much growing up, but she always made sure I felt special. Every Christmas, she’d save up to get me something I really wanted. She always said I was her ‘only one.’ It was our thing.”
Carl’s voice softened as he smiled faintly. “That year, I’d gotten her a gift too. A little Polaroid camera. She loved photography and always talked about becoming a photographer. But she never got to open it. And I never got to say goodbye.”
“For years,” Carl continued, “I’ve bought her a gift at Christmas and left it at her grave. It’s my way of keeping her memory alive. I’ve never told anyone, not even my parents. I hid it in the basement because I didn’t know how to explain it to you. I didn’t want you to think I was stuck in the past, or that I was crazy.”
My heart ached for the boy he had been, carrying such a heavy loss all these years.
“This year,” he said, his voice breaking, “Logan must’ve found it. I swear, Amber, I was going to take it to her grave like always. I never meant for you to find out this way.”
Tears blurred my vision as I placed the box on the coffee table.
“Carl… I wish you’d told me,” I said. “You don’t have to carry this alone.”
“I was going to tell you, Amber,” he explained as he wiped his tears. “But every time I thought about it, it hurt too much. Even now, after all these years, it still feels fresh.”
Now, sitting here with Carl, I realized how much pain he had been carrying silently.
“What’s in the box?” I asked softly.
“It’s uh,” Carl began. “It’s a baby-blue Polaroid camera. She always wanted one. She dreamed of being a photographer. I thought… I thought it was something I could still give her, even if she isn’t here anymore.”
For a while, we sat there in silence. Then, a thought struck me.
“Let’s open it,” I said.
Carl looked at me, startled. “What?”
“The gift,” I said. “Let’s open it together. For her.”
We carefully unwrapped the box together, peeling back the golden paper. Inside was the simple, baby-blue camera.
“She would’ve loved this,” he whispered, his voice trembling.
I felt tears slide down my cheeks.
Then, Logan’s small voice from the bedroom broke the silence.
“Mom? Dad? Are you okay?”
“We’re okay, buddy. Come here.”, I quickly wiped my eyes and smiled.
Logan trotted in. He looked at the camera and then back at us, his face curious. “What’s that?”
Carl pulled him into his lap, “It’s a gift for someone very special. My sister, Debra. She’s not here with us, but she loved Christmas just like you do.”
“She sounds nice. Can we get her a stocking next year?”, Logan said.
“Yeah, buddy. She can have a stocking.”
That night, we hung the Polaroid camera on the Christmas tree, right in the center. It sparkled under the lights, reminding us of the love Carl had carried all these years.
That night, I went to bed feeling a strange mix of sorrow and peace.
That day, not only did we find a way to honor Debra’s memory, but we also healed a part of my husband’s heart.
I’ll never forget this Christmas.
