This is a continuation of a bit of flash fiction I'd written called, Daddy's Little Girl. I hadn't really planned on writing a continuation, but when this family came to me with their story a few days before Christmas, I had to write it. It's a story that shows even dense people can sometimes be reasonable with the right motivation.

Daddy's Little Girl - Christmas Day
Copyright 2008 by Heather Rose Brown
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Sipping my fourth cup of coffee for the night (or was it the first cup for the morning?), I studied the scruffy face of the man I used to call my husband. He set his cup on the kitchen table separating us, missing the saucer I'd put in front of him for just that purpose by several inches. "Are you sure you don't want to call Jack and tell him it's okay to be here?"

I imitated Mark's action, but waited for the clink of stoneware against stoneware before shaking my head. "I don't think he'd come today, or at least not this morning, no matter what I said. We discussed it for quite a while yesterday, and he seems convinced things would work out better if, at least initially, it was just you, me, and our son."

Mark's bushy eyebrows popped up. "Our son?"

I closed my eyes and sighed. "I mean our ... child."

I opened my eyes back up when I felt his hand on mine and was taken by surprise when I saw the deep concern in his golden brown eyes. "Theresa," he whispered, "are you thinking of backing out?"

"No," I answered just as quietly. "I've tried doing things my way and wound up with a miserable, withdrawn child. It's been breaking my heart seeing hi--her like that."

My former husband nodded, and stared at his half-empty cup before asking, "How does Jack feel about this?"

I shifted my hand under his, took hold of his fingers and squeezed them gently. "Actually, he was the one who initially suggested maybe what I was doing wasn't helping."

Mark looked back up at me, the pain in his eyes replaced by impish mirth. "He had the nerve to suggest you might be mistaken? He's a much braver man than I."

I could feel my cheeks growing warm. "I'm not really that bad, am I?"

His expression became more serious, although the hint of a smile still lingered. "Most of the time, you're a reasonable woman. But there are times, when you get something in your head, it's pretty much impossible to convince you otherwise."

"I'm sorry. I guess I can be pretty mule-headed at times. It's just, when I'm trying to protect someone I care about, I sometimes ..." I let the rest of my apology drop when I heard the creak of small feet coming down the steps and turned towards the doorway leading out to the living room. "Good morning, sweetie!" I shouted. "Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas, Mommy," called back a soft, listless voice.

"There's someone down here in the kitchen waiting to see you, sweetheart."

"Really? Who?" The hint of hope in those two words brought a lump up in my throat. It was the first time in weeks I'd heard more than a dull monotone.

"Why don't you come down and find out?" I asked, mentally crossing my fingers and hoping I'd made the right decision by inviting Mark over for Christmas.

Daddy!" The squeal of excitement when the most precious child in the world walked into the kitchen told me my concerns were unfounded.

Mark slid from his chair and kneeled in the puddle he'd made in the middle of the recently scrubbed linoleum when the snow and mud had melted from his boots. "Merry Christmas, pumpkin. C'mere and gimme hugs."

The bliss on both their faces as they hugged made all the favors I called in so Mark could get a day off from working as a roadie, and the deals I had to make so he could get an overnight flight from where the concert was being held, more than worth it. As I dabbed at my eyes with a napkin from the table, I asked, "So, is anybody ready to open up Christmas presents?"

"I guess so," answered the small miracle in my ex-husband's arms.

Mark brushed the back of the long, silky hair our child had refused to let me trim. "Hey, it's Christmas day. What's with all the grumpy gloomies?"

"I dunno."

"I think maybe I got an idea of what's going on. You're thinking maybe Santa didn't get your letter this year, hmm?" Marks question was answered with a noncommittal shrug. Mark responded with a warm, gentle hug, then asked, "Has Santa ever failed you before?"

"Well, no."

"Then why don't we go take a look under the tree and see what he left for you?" Mark asked as he scooped up our child and lead the way into the living room.
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"Mommy, what happened to our presents?"

I kneeled in front of the Christmas tree beside my questioner and wrapped an arm around his waist. "No," I thought as I mentally scolded myself, "it's *her* waist. If you're going to do this, there can be no half measures." Out loud, I said, "Well, your father and I had a bit of a chat with Santa last night. It turned out some of the wrong presents had been left here, so they were swapped with the correct ones."

"Santa made a mistake?"

"Yes, sweetheart. Sometimes, grownups make mistakes ... even Santa."

Mark kneeled beside us and pulled a large, flat package from under the tree. "So, are you going to just stare at the presents, or are you going to open them?"

Our daughter's grin stretched from ear to ear as she started tearing open the gift, then dropped it as if she had been burned when she lifted the lid.

"What's wrong, Pumpkin?" Mark asked as he picked the half-opened package up from the floor.

"It ... it's a dress," she answered as she touched the bit of green velvet peeking out of the box with a trembling finger.

"Yes it is," he said as he lifted the lid and tossed it aside, revealing an adorable jumper dress I'd caught our daughter eyeing only a few days ago.

"But, Mommy said I couldn't wear girl stuff no more. She said I gotta wear boy stuff."

I squeezed her waist and asked, "Do you want to wear boy clothes?"

"Nnnnnooo ... but you said I had to 'cause I'm a boy."

"I did say that. But, like I said before, sometimes grownups, even mommies, make mistakes."

Hot tears slid down my cheeks as my daughter wrapped her arms around my neck and whispered between sniffles, "Thank you, Mommy."

Barely able to speak myself, I whispered back, "You're welcome, Melissa. Merry Christmas."