Grandma Rose sat at the kitchen table, knitting warm socks with care, stitch by stitch. Officially, she was Rosalind Parker, but everyone in the village knew her simply as Rose—fondly, like family.
The house was quiet with winter’s hush, broken only by the crackle of the radio on the windowsill. Suddenly, the door creaked open. Rose glanced up—and froze. There, on the threshold, stood… Father Christmas himself. Red hat, white beard, fur-trimmed coat—just as he ought to look.
“Good evening, Rosie!” he greeted her with a smile. “Room for a visitor?”
Rose adjusted her glasses, studying his boots, his sack, and let out a baffled sigh.
“Goodness, is it really you? What brings you here?”
“What do you mean?” he chuckled. “It’s the thirty-first of December! The whole country’s ringing in the New Year. And I’ve come with a little something for you.”
“What do you want with an old woman like me? You should be visiting the children, listening to their rhymes. I’m just a granny—done with presents long ago.”
“Hardly any children left in the village—you could count them on one hand. But those socks? Proper cosy,” he nodded at her knitting. “Means you deserve a gift too.”
“Alright then, if you insist—go on, hand it over,” she smirked. “But don’t expect a poem from me. My back’s acting up—can barely move.”
“Then tell me, what good have you done this year?”
“Me? Oh…” Rose paused. “Knit mittens for the grandkids, socks for the neighbours. Gave away veg from the garden. Not out of kindness, mind—just nothing better to do.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. That’s kindness—doing things without expecting aught in return.”
“Speaking of, my old man’s off somewhere. Left at dawn—not a word since.”
“Meant to pop by him too. Still the same old charmer?”
“That he is! Goes round the neighbours, spinning tales, singing songs. Cheers folks up so they don’t mope.”
“You love him, don’t you?”
“What do you think?” Rose smiled. “Fifty years together. We pretend we’re hard of hearing, that we don’t see or catch everything. Never row. What’s the point?”
Father Christmas pulled a scarf from his sack—soft wool, embroidered, gleaming faintly.
“Here, take it. Wear this, and you’ll shed ten years easy.”
“Oh, it’s lovely!” Her eyes lit up. “Always dreamed of one like this. Thank you!”
“Thank your husband,” he winked. “He’s the one who wrote me.”
He stepped into the hall, shed his coat and hat, and tucked them into a chest.
“Ah, my Rosie…” he murmured. “Didn’t recognise her own husband’s voice. Or is she playing along?”
Meanwhile, Rose twirled before the mirror in her new scarf, whispering:
“That’s how we live, Johnny… Acting like we don’t know a thing. But we do. Just love our own way. And the magic’s in that.”
