Grandma Elsie sat at the kitchen table, knitting thick wool socks—stitch by careful stitch. Officially, she was Elsie Margaret, but in the village, everyone called her Elsie—like family, warm and familiar.
The house was hushed with winter stillness, only the radio crackling softly by the window. Then, the door creaked open. Elsie looked up—and froze. There, on the threshold, stood… Father Christmas himself. Red hat, white beard, fur-lined coat—just as he should be.
“Evening, Els,” he greeted with a smile. “Room for a visitor?”
She adjusted her glasses, studied his sack and boots, then breathed out in astonishment.
“Good Lord, is it really you? What brings you ’round here?”
“What do you mean?” He chuckled. “It’s the thirty-first of December! Everyone’s welcoming the New Year. And I’ve come with a gift for you.”
“What do you want with an old woman like me? Go see the children, hear their little rhymes. Me? I’ve given all the gifts I’ve got.”
“Hardly any youngsters left in the village, these days. But your socks? Proper cozy, they are.” He nodded at her knitting. “That means you deserve something too.”
“Alright then, since you’re here—out with it,” she smirked. “Just don’t expect any rhymes from me. My back’s giving me grief—can barely move.”
“Then tell me, what good have you done this year?”
“Oh, hardly anything…” Elsie mused. “Knitted mittens for the grandkids, socks for the neighbours. Handed out veggies from the garden. Might’ve just been to pass the time, mind you.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. That’s kindness—doing things without expecting a thing back.”
“My old man, mind you, he’s off somewhere. Left this morning—not a word since.”
“I meant to pop by him too. Still telling his tall tales, is he?”
“Oh, more than ever! Goes door to door, spinning yarns, singing songs. Cheers folks up so they don’t mope about.”
“Do you love him?”
“What do you reckon?” Elsie smiled. “Fifty years we’ve been together. Pretend we don’t hear everything, don’t see everything. And we don’t row. What’s the point?”
Father Christmas pulled a scarf from his sack—soft wool, embroidered, glinting in the light.
“Here, take it. Wear this, and you’ll feel ten years younger.”
“Goodness, it’s lovely!” Her eyes lit up. “Always wanted something like this. Thank you!”
“Thank your husband,” he winked. “He wrote me a letter.”
He stepped into the hall, shrugged off his coat and hat, and tucked them into a trunk.
“Ah, my Elsie…” he muttered. “Didn’t recognise her own man’s voice. Or is she playing along?”
Meanwhile, Elsie twirled before the mirror in her new scarf, whispering,
“That’s how it is, Johnny… Acting like we don’t know a thing. But we do. Just love our own way, don’t we? And that’s the magic of it.”
Some things are better left unspoken—not because they’re forgotten, but because love needs no words. That’s the lesson, I reckon.
