Christmas Morning

I wake before the sun, the way I always do. Not because I’m excited, not because there’s anything waiting for me under the tree, but because someone has to make the magic before anyone else opens their eyes. I move through the house quietly, gathering the gifts I wrapped alone last night, smoothing the tape, fluffing the bows, arranging everything so it looks effortless. So it looks like Christmas.

There’s no stocking with my name on it. There never has been. I don’t expect one anymore. I’ve learned to swallow that small ache the way I swallow all the others — quickly, quietly, before it can rise.

The kids come thundering down the hall, bright and buzzing, and I smile because they deserve this. I hand out gifts, take pictures, gather the torn paper into a trash bag before it can spread across the floor. I’m already thinking about breakfast — who likes their eggs how, whether we still have enough milk, how long the cinnamon rolls will take.

When the last present is opened, they scatter. New toys, new screens, new noise. And I start the second shift: dishes, laundry, wiping down counters, clearing the living room, folding blankets, picking up the pieces of a holiday I built from scratch.

It’s Christmas, but for me it’s just another day I don’t get off. Another day where the work is invisible unless it’s undone. Another day where I give and give and give, and the only thing waiting for me is the quiet hum of the dishwasher and the ache in my back.

I tell myself it’s worth it because they’re happy. I tell myself that’s enough. But sometimes, in the stillness between chores, I wonder what it would feel like to be surprised. To be seen. To have someone hand me something — anything — and say, This is for you.

For now, I tie my hair back, turn on the stove, and keep moving. Because Christmas doesn’t happen unless I make it happen. And no one notices the hands that build the holiday, only the magic that appears when they wake.