Grandma Margaret sat at the kitchen table, knitting warm socks with careful precision—stitch by stitch. Officially, she was Margaret Elizabeth, but in the village, everyone knew her simply as Maggie—familiar, warm, like the glow of a hearth.
The house was hushed with winter’s quiet, broken only by the faint crackle of the radio on the windowsill. Then, the door creaked open. Maggie lifted her eyes—and froze. There, on the threshold, stood… Father Christmas himself. Crimson hat, snowy beard, fur-trimmed coat—everything as it should be.
“Good evening, Maggie love!” he greeted with a twinkle in his eye. “Room for a visitor?”
She adjusted her glasses, studying his boots, his sack, and exhaled in disbelief. “Good Lord, is it really you? Whatever for?”
“Whatever for?” He chuckled. “It’s the 31st of December! The whole world’s ringing in the New Year. And I’ve come bearing a gift.”
“But why me, an old woman? You ought to be off with the little ones, listening to their rhymes. What use have I for presents?”
“Hardly any children left in the village these days. But those socks you’re knitting—look how snug they are.” He nodded at her work. “That’s worth a gift, isn’t it?”
“Fine then, since you’re here—out with it,” she smirked. “But don’t expect a poem from me. My back’s giving me grief—can barely move.”
“Then tell me, what good have you done this year?”
“What have I…?” Maggie paused. “Knitted mittens for the grandchildren, socks for the neighbors. Gave away my vegetables. Not out of kindness, mind—just keeping busy.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. That’s kindness—doing things without expecting a thing in return.”
“And my old man, mind you, is off somewhere. Left this morning—not a word since.”
“I’ve a mind to visit him too. Still the same old charmer, is he?”
“Oh, worse than ever! Rambling from house to house, spinning yarns, singing tunes. Cheering folks up so they don’t dwell on the gloom.”
“Do you love him?”
“What do you reckon?” Maggie smiled. “Fifty years together. We pretend we’re hard of hearing, that we don’t see or notice everything. And we don’t quarrel. What’s the point?”
Father Christmas reached into his sack and pulled out a shawl—soft wool, intricate patterns, shimmering in the firelight.
“Here, take it. Wear this, and you’ll feel ten years younger.”
“Oh, it’s lovely!” Her eyes sparkled. “Dreamed of one like this all my life. Thank you!”
“Thank your husband,” he winked. “He’s the one who wrote to me.”
He stepped into the hall, shrugged off the coat and hat, and tucked them into the chest.
“Ah, my Maggie…” he murmured. “Didn’t recognize her own husband’s voice. Or is she playing along?”
Meanwhile, Maggie twirled before the mirror in her new shawl, whispering,
“That’s how we live, my Johnny… Acting like we don’t know a thing. But we do. We just love in our own way. And the magic—well, it’s in that.”
