Hi

Merry Christmas! I'm sending this out at midnight CST Christmas Eve, heading into Christmas morning. I have always loved this time of year - the kids are asleep and parents are eating the cookies and drinking the milk that was left out for Santa, putting together toys - excited to see their child's face the next morning. 

My babies are all grown now, but you'd better believe I still do silly things like Elf gifts and Santa presents. I'm always awake first, ready to record their face when they walk down the hall (or through the door) to see what "Santa" brought them. It never gets old. 

Today we had my son and his wife come over and we did our dinner and they opened all of their gifts since they stay home Christmas day. The elves brought gifts for everyone, and my two younger ones will open their Christmas presents in the morning in a few hours. Even the doggos and kitties got gifts of toys, treats and catnip. 

I worked on a heart-warming Christmas story with AI as my writing partner. It's a precious tale about a little lost dog, a lonely widow, and how the magic of Christmas can bring unexpected joy and connection when we need it most. If you're looking for something cozy to read by the fire this holiday season, one that will leave you with a warm heart and maybe a few happy tears, I think you'll enjoy "The Little Christmas Visitor" below. I teared up writing it with AI. LOL! But I'm a dork. 

Enjoy it and I hope you have a lovely Christmas holiday! Here's the story:

The Little Christmas Visitor

Snow fell in gentle waves past Margaret Sullivan’s living room window, each flake catching the glow of Christmas lights from the neighbors' homes across the street. The Patterson children next door were hanging ornaments – she could see their small shadows dancing behind gauzy curtains, their excitement visible even from a distance. Most houses on Maple Avenue blazed with warmth and celebration, strings of multicolored bulbs cutting bright paths through the growing darkness of Christmas Eve.

Margaret's own home stood dark except for the fire crackling in the hearth and a single lamp beside her armchair. The mantel above stretched bare and empty – she hadn't been able to bring herself to unpack the decorations this year. Not without Richard. The house felt too quiet, too still, as if it too were holding its breath, waiting for a joy that wouldn't return.

She lifted her tea cup with trembling hands, her gaze drawn to the silver-framed photograph on the end table. Richard's eyes crinkled at the corners in that way she'd loved so much, his arm wrapped securely around her shoulders as they stood in front of their first Christmas tree together. Forty-two years ago now.

"I miss you more at Christmas," she whispered to the empty room, her voice catching. "Remember how you used to sing 'White Christmas' so off-key while I baked? I'd give anything to hear that awful singing again."

The grandfather clock in the hall struck six, its deep chimes echoing through the silence. Margaret set down her tea and pushed herself up from the chair, her joints protesting the cold. In the kitchen, a stack of Christmas cards sat unopened on the counter, their cheerful red and green envelopes a mockery of the season. She'd bought them in October, determined to reconnect with old friends, but now they gathered dust. Most of those friends were gone too, moved away or passed on, and she couldn't bear to see how small her address book had become.

She pulled a streusel blueberry muffin from beneath a glass dome on the counter – one of a batch she'd made yesterday, trying to fill the endless hours. It wasn't the same as preparing Richard's favorite Christmas Eve dinner: the turkey he'd carve with such ceremony, the scalloped potatoes that had to be just crispy enough on top, the apple pie that had won his heart on their first date. Now she baked in small batches, learning to adjust recipes meant for families down to single servings. Another skill she'd never wanted to master.

The muffin, sweet just yesterday, now seemed to have lost all flavor, as if her solitude had stolen its taste. She stood at the kitchen window, watching the snow transform her backyard into a blank canvas. Somewhere in the distance, she heard the faint strains of carolers, their voices carrying on the winter wind. Margaret closed her eyes, remembering how she and Richard used to walk the neighborhood on Christmas Eve, stopping to sing at every house with a light on. His voice might have been off-key, but his heart had always been in perfect tune with the season.

That's when she heard it – a soft scratching at her front door, so faint she thought at first it was just the wind pushing snow against the house. She stayed still, listening. There it was again, more distinct this time, followed by what sounded like a whimper.

Margaret hesitated, her hand halfway to the door handle. In all her years on Maple Avenue, no one had ever come calling on Christmas Eve – everyone was always busy with their own celebrations. The scratching came again, more urgent now.

She turned the handle and pulled the door open, letting in a swirl of snowflakes and bitter cold. For a moment, she saw nothing but darkness and falling snow. Then she looked down.

A small white Pomeranian stood on her welcome mat, its fluffy fur dusted with snow like powdered sugar. The dog looked up at her with dark, hopeful eyes, its tiny tail wagging despite the cold. Something in Margaret's chest loosened at the sight – a knot she hadn't even known was there.

"Oh, you poor little thing," she breathed, a smile tugging at her lips for the first time in days. She bent down, gathering the shivering creature into her arms. Its fur was cold and damp against her sweater. "Come in, come in out of this weather."

Margaret closed the door against the cold and carried her unexpected visitor to the living room. She grabbed the soft throw blanket from the back of Richard's old armchair – the one he used to fall asleep under during evening news broadcasts – and wrapped it gently around the dog. Its shivers gradually subsided as she settled back into her chair, cradling the small bundle in her lap.

The fire crackled and popped, sending shadows dancing across the walls. The dog nuzzled closer, resting its head against her arm with complete trust, as if it had known her all along. Margaret found herself speaking softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

"It's been so quiet here," she told the dog, stroking its slowly drying fur. "My Richard's been gone three years now. Sometimes..." She looked around the empty room, at the bare mantel and the single teacup on the side table. "Sometimes I forget what it feels like, having someone else breathing in the same room."

The dog lifted its head and licked her hand, its tail thumping softly against the blanket. Margaret felt tears prick at her corners of her eyes, but for the first time in a long while, they weren't entirely sad ones.

"Well," she said, scratching behind the dog's ears, "I suppose you can stay here tonight. We'll look for your family after Christmas." The thought of company, even temporary, warmed her more than the fire. She found herself wondering what treats she might have in the pantry that would be suitable for a dog.

The thought of dogs and treats triggered a memory, and Margaret carefully lifted the Pomeranian from her lap. "Wait right here," she told it, though it followed her anyway, trotting at her heels as she made her way to the hall closet. In the back, behind winter coats and boots, sat a cardboard box labeled 'Buddy' in Richard's careful handwriting.

Her hands trembled slightly as she opened it. Buddy had been their anniversary gift to each other – a clumsy cocker spaniel puppy who'd grown into the gentlest soul she'd ever known. He'd passed six months before Richard, and sometimes she thought losing them both so close together had made the grief twice as sharp.

Inside the box, she found what she was looking for: Buddy's Christmas sweater, hand-knitted by her neighbor Mrs. Chen before she'd moved to Arizona. The red and white pattern was still bright, though the yarn had pilled slightly with wear. Margaret held it up, remembering how proud Buddy had looked wearing it each Christmas.

The Pomeranian sat patiently as she slipped the sweater over its head. It was comically large, sliding off one shoulder like a fashionable slouch, but the dog seemed delighted, prancing around in circles to show off its new outfit. Margaret found herself laughing – actually laughing – for the first time in longer than she could remember.

But as she watched the little dog parade around her living room, another thought crept in, stealing the warmth from her moment of joy. Somewhere out there, a family was missing this precious creature. She imagined children lying awake, too worried about their lost pet to anticipate Santa's arrival. Parents walking the snowy streets, calling into the darkness. Her mind conjured the image of a family's Christmas Eve transformed from joy to despair, all because their beloved pet had wandered away.

Margaret looked at the clock – only 6:305. Early enough to search, late enough to find people home for Christmas Eve. She glanced down at the dog, now curled up contentedly by the fire in its oversized sweater.

"I'm sorry, little one," she said softly, "but we can't wait until after Christmas. Someone out there is missing you terribly." She stood up, squaring her shoulders with fresh purpose. "And I know exactly how that feels."

Margaret found Buddy's old leather leash in the box, its brown surface worn smooth from years of morning walks. She fastened it to the Pomeranian's collar and wrapped herself in her warmest wool coat, pulling on boots and a knitted scarf. The dog waited patiently by the door, its borrowed sweater slipping sideways again.

The snow was falling faster now, big flakes catching in Margaret's gray hair as she made her way down her front steps. The streets of Maple Avenue looked like something from a Christmas card – pristine white snow coating every surface, colored lights reflecting off the crystalline blanket. But the beauty felt lonely somehow, with most houses either dark or showing only the flicker of television screens through their windows.

She started with the house next door, where the Pattersons lived. No answer – probably at their daughter's place in Connecticut, like every Christmas. At the Miller house across the street, a harried-looking man opened the door just wide enough to shake his head at her question before quickly shutting it again.

House after house, the pattern repeated. Empty homes. Hurried rejections. Closed doors. The Pomeranian trotted faithfully beside her, seemingly unbothered by the cold or the growing snow. Margaret found herself talking as they walked, her voice soft in the muffled winter air.

"You know, Buddy used to love nights like this," she told the little dog, brushing snow from its fur. "He'd bounce through the drifts like a rabbit, then come in covered in snowballs. Richard would laugh so hard..." She smiled at the memory, even as tears threatened to freeze on her cheeks. "Christmas Eve was always his favorite. Richard would make hot chocolate with too many marshmallows, and Buddy would beg for one until we gave in. Just one, mind you – but he'd look so proud of himself."

They reached the corner of Oak Street, where more houses blazed with holiday lights. Margaret pulled her coat tighter against the wind. "We used to put up lights too," she confided to her small companion. " Richard would spend hours arranging everything just right - white lights in each window, twinkling like stars through the frost. He'd stand out in the yard each night, studying his work, making tiny adjustments until it was perfect. 'A house should glow at Christmas,' he'd always say. 'Like it's holding all the joy inside.'”

The Pomeranian looked up at her with those soulful eyes, as if understanding every word. It pressed closer to her leg as they walked, offering silent comfort. Margaret wiped her eyes with her mittened hand, grateful for the companionship, even if it was temporary.

That's when she saw it – a Victorian house on the corner of Maple and Pine, every window alive with golden light. The sound of laughter floated across the snow-covered lawn, along with the rich smell of roasting turkey and the faint notes of "Silent Night" played on a piano. 

Through the large bay window, she could see a family gathering around a dining table that seemed to stretch forever, laden with steaming dishes and decorated with shining candlesticks. A Christmas tree that nearly touched the ceiling sparkled in the corner, and children darted between the adults like bright birds, carrying rolls and napkins to the table.

Margaret stopped on the sidewalk, her heart catching at the scene. It was like looking through a window into the past – into all the Christmas Eves that used to fill her own home with such warmth when her husband and friends and family gathered. The little Pomeranian sat in the snow beside her, and she noticed its tail wasn't wagging as frantically as it had been at other houses.

"They seem so happy," she whispered to the dog. "Surely if you belonged to them, they'd be out searching, not celebrating." But even as she said it, the dog stood up and took a few steps toward the house, looking back at her expectantly. When she hesitated, it gave a soft whine and wagged its tail, as if encouraging her forward.

Margaret squared her shoulders and made her way up the shoveled walk, each step feeling heavier than the last. Before she could lose her nerve, she pressed the doorbell, hearing it chime inside above the sounds of celebration.

The door opened in a rush of warm air and kitchen smells, revealing a woman about her own age, wearing an apron dusted with flour and a slightly frazzled expression. Her hair was escaping from its clip, and she had what looked like cranberry sauce on her sleeve.

"I'm so sorry to disturb you on Christmas E-" Margaret began, but the woman's gasp cut her off.

"Max!" the woman exclaimed, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh my goodness – Max!" She looked from the dog to Margaret and back again, her eyes filling with tears. "I'm Nancy," she managed. "And it looks like you've found our little escape artist."

Before Margaret could respond, Nancy dabbed at her eyes with her apron. "He was my mother's dog," she explained, bending down to ruffle Max's fur. "Mom passed in October. Max was her constant companion through her illness – wouldn't leave her side for a minute." Her voice caught. "We inherited him, but honestly, we've been so overwhelmed with everything..."

A burst of children's laughter came from inside, and Nancy's eyes widened. "Oh! The door – Cousin Tommy arrived with his kids about an hour ago. He must have left it open while getting them in from the cold. We thought Max was sleeping upstairs in Mom's old room. He likes to curl up in her reading chair sometimes…"

Max was wiggling with excitement now, though Margaret noticed he kept pressing against her legs even as he greeted Nancy. The oversized sweater had slipped almost entirely off one shoulder, making him look endearingly disheveled.

"Please," Nancy said, stepping back from the doorway. "You have to come in and warm up. You've brought our Christmas miracle right to our doorstep – the least we can do is feed you dinner."

Margaret hesitated, but the warmth and delicious smells pouring from the house were irresistible after the cold night air. She found herself being ushered into a bustling kitchen, Max trotting happily at her heels.

"Everyone!" Nancy called out. "Look who this kind lady found!"

The room erupted in joyful chaos. Children rushed to pet Max, adults exclaimed over his sweater, and a tall man who must have been Cousin Tommy apologized profusely about the door. Margaret was guided to a seat at the table, a plate of turkey and all the trimmings appearing before her as if by magic.

"Grandma would be so happy Max is here for Christmas," a young girl with braids said, pointing her Polaroid camera at the dog. "Can I take your picture with him? I just got this camera – they're totally coming back in style."

Margaret smiled, remembering the Polaroid camera she'd had in college. "Of course, dear."

The flash went off, and soon a square photo was developing on the table between them. Margaret watched as her own image slowly appeared, Max contentedly settled in her lap, both of them bathed in the warm glow of Christmas lights and family.

As plates were passed and glasses filled, Margaret found herself sharing stories about Buddy, her cocker spaniel, and the Christmases she and Richard used to celebrate. The family listened with genuine interest, laughing at her description of Buddy's first encounter with wrapping paper, nodding sympathetically when her voice caught speaking of Richard.

"Richard Sullivan?" Nancy's father-in-law asked suddenly from across the table. "From Sullivan's Hardware on Main Street?"

Margaret nodded, surprised. "Yes, that was my husband."

The older man's face lit up. "Then you must be Richard's Margaret! My late wife Alice – Nancy's mother – she was Richard's cousin by marriage. Through the Baker side of the family."

"Alice Baker?" Margaret set down her fork, memories flooding back. "Richard used to mention her. We never met, but he always said we would have gotten along beautifully. She was the gardener, wasn't she?"

Nancy's eyes were shining. "Mom's roses won ribbons at the county fair for years. She would have loved knowing you were here. It's like..." she glanced at Max, still hovering near Margaret's chair, "like she somehow helped bring us all together tonight."

"You know," Tommy's wife Catherine said warmly, reaching for the mashed potatoes, "we do Sunday Supper here every week. It was Alice's tradition – she always said food tastes better with family around the table."

Nancy nodded enthusiastically. "You absolutely must join us. No arguments – you're family now. We've just been waiting all these years to finally meet you!"

Margaret felt warmth spread through her chest, different from the lonely ache of before. She looked around the table at these strangers who were somehow family, at Max leaning contentedly against her legs, at the Polaroid photo sitting by her plate like a promise of more memories to come.

As the meal wound down and people began clearing plates, Nancy touched Margaret's arm gently. "Can we talk for a moment?" She nodded toward the living room, away from the cheerful chaos of dish-washing and leftover-packing.

They settled on the couch, Max immediately hopping up to nestle between them. Nancy smiled, but Margaret could see tears gathering in her eyes.

"You know," Nancy began, absently stroking Max's fur, "Mom loved this little guy more than anything. He was her constant companion, especially after Dad passed. But since she's been gone..." She paused, collecting herself. "We've been struggling, if I'm honest. The boys are in high school now – David's looking at colleges, Jack's got sports. I'm either driving to tournaments or chaperoning college visits most weekends."

Margaret nodded, understanding beginning to dawn.

"Max needs more than we can give him," Nancy continued. "He's eleven now – set in his ways, used to being someone's whole world. We've been so worried about him. We couldn't bear the thought of a shelter, at his age..." She watched as Max shifted in his oversized sweater to rest his head on Margaret's lap. "But seeing him with you tonight..."

Margaret's hand stilled on Max's fur. "Oh," she breathed.

"Would you consider taking him?" Nancy asked softly. "You don't have to answer right away, of course. But the way he looks at you... it's exactly how he used to look at Mom."

Margaret felt tears spill down her cheeks. "Are you sure? He's your mother's-"

"Mom would have loved this," Nancy interrupted gently. "She would have loved you. And knowing Max would have someone to share Christmas cookies with, someone to curl up with by the fire..." She smiled through her own tears. "Just promise you'll bring him to Sunday Suppers? Mom always said a dog makes family gatherings complete."

Margaret looked down at Max, who gazed back at her with those soulful eyes that had captured her heart on her doorstep just hours ago. "We'd love to come to Sunday Suppers," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Both of us."

The walk home through the softly falling snow felt different than her earlier desperate search. Max trotted beside her, no longer a lost soul but a companion. His oversized sweater had finally slipped completely off, and Margaret carried it, already planning the pattern for a new one that would fit him properly.

Inside her house, the silence that had felt so oppressive earlier now seemed peaceful. She built up the fire again and arranged Buddy's old bed nearby, tucking a fresh blanket into it. But the moment she settled into her armchair with her knitting needles, Max abandoned the bed and hopped into her lap instead.

"Well, I suppose this works too," she chuckled, adjusting her yarn around him. Her fingers moved steadily, casting on stitches for a sweater that would fit his smaller frame. The soft click of knitting needles filled the room as Max's breathing grew slow and steady against her legs.

Margaret glanced up at the framed photo on the end table – she and Richard on their first Christmas – but now it wasn't alone. Propped up beside it stood the Polaroid from earlier that evening, showing her and Max sitting the chair next to Nancy's Christmas tree, both of them looking surprisingly at home among the twinkling lights and family gathered around them.

"You would have loved him, Richard," she said softly into the quiet room. Her voice wasn't sad now, just tender with memory. "Thank you for making sure I wasn't alone this Christmas." She smiled down at the sleeping dog in her lap. "Though I have a feeling you had a little help from Alice on this one."

Outside, the snow continued to fall, coating Maple Avenue in fresh white. But inside, Margaret's house glowed with warmth once again, no longer empty, no longer silent. And if she listened carefully, she could almost hear the echo of Richard's off-key caroling in the gentle sound of Max's contented sighs.

Merry Christmas, everyone! May God bless each and every one of you.

Tiff ;)