Christmas Eve always carried a weight I could never shake. As I slid into the back seat of the taxi, the world around me blurred into sleep, and I let it. When I awoke, it wasn’t to the sight of home, but to a cold, abandoned room.
The sterile white lights of the hospital hallway buzzed above me, a constant reminder of my exhaustion from back-to-back night shifts. Christmas Eve in the ER was no different from any other day—chaotic, loud, and unforgiving.
It was Christmas Eve, and Jeremy, my boyfriend of four years, was waiting. “Cider’s on the stove, the tree’s lit, and I even wore that sweater you hate,” he teased over the phone. He loved Christmas. For him, it was joy and family. For me, it was loss.
Growing up in an orphanage, I’d only heard whispers about my parents. My mother had died young, and my father? He was a mystery. Christmas reminded me of what I never had.
Stepping outside, I climbed into a cab. Exhaustion claimed me, and I drifted to sleep. When I woke, the driver was gone, and I was in a dark garage.
Then, a man appeared. “Megan,” he said, voice trembling, “I’m your father.”
Years of questions flooded me. Jeremy’s investigation, the DNA test, and this man’s sorrowful confession shattered my walls.
“I don’t know if I can call you Dad yet,” I said, voice shaking. “But I’d like to know you.”
As Jeremy’s hand tightened around mine, hope filled the air—Christmas wasn’t just a reminder of loss anymore. It was a chance for family.
