Dear Santa

Although it wasn’t yet fully dark by the time the last guest left, Grant could tell the day had taken its toll on his daughter. In fact, when Mia asked her if she was ready for her bath, she’d given a nod that had clearly used up her last ounce of reserve. Mia—once divested of her Grace Kelly outfit that his mother clearly saw as just a thrift shop rag and back in her customary baggy jeans and sweatshirt—volunteered to do the honors. But a half hour later, she came downstairs and strongly suggested that Grant tuck Haley in.

Over the panic slicing through him, she added, “Especially since I’ve done it the past two nights.”

“I know, but…she’s more comfortable with you.”

“For the love of Pete, Grant—who put her to bed all those nights she spent with you?”

“Etta, usually.”

“That’s beyond sad. You know, my father drives all his kids crazy on a regular basis, but at least he tries to communicate with us. Even if half the time we’re not exactly thrilled with the message. Well, bud, you’ve got to start the bonding process sometime. And four years late is better than never.” Then she startled him by adding, “There’s a good father in there somewhere, Grant. It’s okay to let him out.”

Their eyes locked for an unsettling moment or two before, on a not-very-squelched sigh, Grant headed upstairs to Haley’s room. She was lying on her back in her bed, the toy lion propped on her tummy. From what he could tell they were having quite the conversation. When she noticed Grant, however, her head whipped around, a small wrinkle marring the space between her brows.