Christmas Chocolate

Christmas Chocolate

written by: T. E. Davis

 

The house was not just quiet; it was hushed by a profound, brittle silence—the kind held captive by thick, relentless snow falling outside and the deeper, heavy silence of worry inside. Twelve-year-old Leo zipped his winter coat up to his chin, the scratchy nylon a minor distraction from the cold knot in his stomach. His mom was very ill this holiday season, confined to her bed, and Leo was determined to find her one perfect gift, a final act of devotion.

He set out into the biting cold. After a long, desperate search, he finally found the last remaining box in one of the town shops: three handmade bars of the rich, dark chocolate his mom loved—the kind they hadn’t been able to find all year. It felt like holding a tiny, fragile miracle.

On the way home, disaster struck with sickening speed. Leo slipped on a slick patch of hidden ice. The box he held loosely in his palms flew from his grasp. The flimsy lid snapped open, and the precious bars scattered, landing with dull thuds directly into the slurry of icy mud at the curb. Leo knelt, his knees sinking into the slush, staring at the ruined chocolate. It was now nothing more than muddy wreckage, and since it had been the last box in the town, it was utterly irreplaceable.

When Leo finally arrived back at home, he went straight to the kitchen. His dad was there, pouring steaming tea. Leo walked across the linoleum, silent and defeated, carrying the empty, muddy box, and dropped it into the trash bin. The small, hollow thud echoed loudly. Dad’s eyes followed the movement, the unspoken tragedy passing between them instantly. Without a word, Dad simply placed a heavy hand on Leo’s shoulder. “Why don’t you change your clothes and meet everyone in the living room.”

Leo quickly changed his sodden clothes and entered the living room just as his sister, Maya, was presenting her gift. Maya, usually so bold, was shyly holding out a small, soft bundle. “I knitted them myself, Mom,” she whispered. They were a beautiful pair of woolly, purple socks. Mom’s weak smile—the one that still managed to light up the room—widened as she slowly pulled them onto her cold feet.

Then, Dad brought forward a small, velvet box. He had originally planned to be the only one to give it to his wife, but after witnessing Leo’s anguish in the kitchen, he had quickly grabbed a pen to sneak Leo’s name next to his own on the gift tag.

Mom opened the necklace and read the names on the tag aloud: “To my sweet Emily, from Thomas and Leo.” As she looked up, Dad gave Leo a quick, subtle wink—a shared, powerful secret that warmed Leo’s spirit more deeply than the crackling fireplace.

After the gifts were exchanged, Mom sighed contentedly, her feet warm in the purple wool. Dad suggested they tell family stories. That night, Leo took center stage, fueled by a nervous energy and a fierce desire to make her happy. He recounted the year Dad accidentally drove their old car through a sprinkler, the hilarious time Maya dyed their terrier green, and the countless hours Mom had spent reading to them in the faded armchair. The house, which had been so cold for so long, finally filled with genuine, warm laughter for the first time in months.

The next morning, as the first pale light of the sun began to peek through the remaining snow, Dad went in to check on Mom. A few minutes later, he came out and simply gathered Leo and Maya into a long, quiet hug. The house instantly became still, suspended in a fragile, terrible peace.

Mom had passed away in her sleep.

Crushed, Leo broke free and ran upstairs to his room. He didn’t come out until the house had fallen dark again. He found his dad in the kitchen; Maya was already in bed. Leo buried his face against his father’s shirt, the dam breaking, and cried out, “I didn’t even give her a present on her last Christmas!”

Dad looked down at him, holding him tight, and asked, “Do you know what one of the very last things your Mom said to me was?”

Leo pulled back, his eyes wet. “Did she talk about how amazing the necklace and socks were?”

Dad shook his head, a warm, knowing smile touching his eyes. “No, son. Her favorite gift wasn’t something we bought or made. Her favorite gift was the gift of your stories.”