A Little Christmas

Christmas morning, 1942

The chilled air nipped William’s nose and fingers. He yanked the bedcovers over his face, blowing hot puffs of breath to warm himself. He tried to steal a few more minutes of his dream. Scrunching his eyes, he pictured Daddy stoking the fire and Momma bringing in a tray of batter cakes smothered in Golden Eagle Syrup. They always ate in the living room before opening presents.

He covered his ears and concentrated hard. The ghostly scent of his father’s aftershave mingled with brewing coffee, enveloping him as he clung to memories of past Decembers.

The drip, drip, pop of the percolator drifted up the stairs, down the hall, straight through his bedroom door.

“Wi-yam!” Little-bitty feet pounded down the hallway. “Wi-yam!” His little sister’s voice called out, jubilant, innocent, unaware of the war overseas and the emptiness filling their home.

The doorknob jiggled. Seconds later, Eliza climbed onto his bed. William groaned.

“It’s Christmas!” Eliza sing-songed.

It wasn’t Eliza’s fault. She was barely two. She missed Daddy because William and Momma kept his memory alive.

William thrust back the covers and threw his legs over the bed, reaching for Eliza’s hand. “I know,” he forced a smile. “Let’s go see if Momma needs help in the kitchen.”

“Batter takes?” Eliza asked.

William snorted and shook his head. She remembered batter cakes more than Daddy. “I doubt it. There ain’t enough sugar.”

No fire lit the hearth. The living room was cold, but shuffling came from the kitchen. Cabinets clapped shut. The percolator percolated, but it wasn’t brewing coffee. Momma had coffee stashed away, but she vowed to drink chicory until Daddy came home.

Eliza took off toward their mother like a shot. She wrapped her arms around the backs of Momma’s legs. William hung back, leaning against the doorframe. His mother turned away from the stove and lifted Eliza, nestling her face in her daughter’s copper curls. She turned to William and smiled, her face weak and tired, yet she was putting her best foot forward for her children. Just like every day.

Momma extended an arm, and William walked into her embrace.

“Merry Christmas, babies,” she whispered, a slight choke in her voice.

“Merry Christmas, Mama,” they returned.

William hugged his mother’s frame a little tighter and then made his way outside to haul in kindling and firewood.

The batter cakes were orange. Momma grated a carrot into the batter and mixed in dried fruit—a substitute for the sugar the government had rationed earlier in the year. William ran his last bite through a puddle of syrup. It tasted good enough. Momma could’ve made a mudpie delicious. But every time he glanced at Daddy’s empty chair looming in the corner, the cake felt like sawdust in his mouth.

After breakfast, William knelt beside the Christmas tree. The meager gifts had been opened, though no wrapping paper lay strewn across the floor. Before the war, Momma chose gift paper with care, and Daddy cut and wrapped with precision.

This year, most of the gifts were for Eliza. She was too young to understand rationing. Paper dolls, drawn by Momma’s hand, and crocheted scarves and hats for both children. William presented his mother with a card he had made at school. Her dim eyes lit as she kissed his cheek, exclaiming it was the sweetest gift. He ached to give her more than cut-out Christmas trees and stars and crayon-written well wishes.

Eliza’s giggle, coupled with Bing Crosby’s crooning, attempted to warm the living room. A white Christmas indeed. Perhaps, someday, there would be a white Christmas in Alabama. Someday. When Daddy came home.

William made to stand and join his mother on the couch.

“There’s one more gift,” Momma said.

William scrunched his brow in confusion but crawled on his hands and knees, exploring the dark corner behind the tree. An unmistakable V-Mail envelope and the prettiest Christmas-paper wrapped box were hidden behind the tree trunk. There wasn’t a stitch of wrapping paper to be found in town. Where on Earth?

Momma patted the cushion beside her, and William gathered the envelope and gift, realizing when the paper crinkled that his hands were shaking.

“The postman brought the letter yesterday,” Momma said. “And this is for you.” She placed the gift in William’s lap.

“Which first?” he asked, gaping at his mother. He’d grown so much this past year that they were nearly eye to eye.

A smile lifted her tired face. “The gift. We’ll read your father’s letter as a family.”

Eliza’s babyish voice filled the room. She had already set up a tea party for her paper dolls, complete with pinecone scale plates and acorn teapots.

William unwrapped the gift gingerly, careful not to mar the precious paper. “A book?” He smoothed his hands over the barn-red cover. Little Men, the cover read, Alcott.

Momma dabbed the corners of her eyes with her fingers. “Open it.”

Written in his father’s bold, distinct handwriting was his name and the date—William Fagan. December, 25, 1942.

William traced the letters. “How?”

“He bought it before he shipped off,” his mother explained. “For you. For this Christmas.”

William sniffled and wiped his nose across his shirt sleeve. Almost-grown-up boys weren’t supposed to cry, but missing Daddy hurt enough to make him cry like a baby.

“There’s a card,” Momma prompted.

Cuddled close to his mother, William opened the card and read his father’s words.

William,

My son, I am so proud of you. The man you are becoming and the care you’ve given your momma and sister this year. No matter how big you grow to be, you will always be my little man. Braver and stronger than you know. My arms are reaching across miles and oceans to you this Christmas and every day until I am home again. Hold on to your momma and Eliza, and stay strong. You are the man of the house until I get home. I love you, son.

Always,

Daddy

William laid the letter atop his new book and read it once more. Pride and love for his father and entire family swelled in his chest. He set the book aside and went to the hearth to stoke the fire.

Eliza’s paper dolls rustled as she walked them across the floor and made them talk.

“C’mon, Eliza,” William beckoned. “Daddy sent us a letter.”

Eliza climbed up on the couch and squeezed in between William and his mother, who took turns kissing the top of her head.

“May I read the letter, Momma?” he asked.

Momma handed William the letter, and he read his father’s words out loud. Daddy’s arms reached across oceans and miles, holding them all just as tight as they would someday when he returned home. And all at once the living room felt warmer, tinged with a little Christmas hope from the Eastern Front.

Author’s Note: My short story, “A Little Christmas,” was inspired by a real copy of Louisa May Alcott’s novel, Little Men, that I found at Candlelight Antiques just outside of Athens, Alabama, on December 23, 2025. The little boy’s name in the book is William Fagan Gooch. I shortened his name to William Fagan. Also, the date—December 25, 1942—is written in the story just as it was written in the book years ago. I know the commas are not correctly placed, but it is not my right to alter the handwriting of another person from so long ago.

In an effort to avoid the holiday cacophony, I took Elkton Road out of Athens and weaved through the little community of Piney Chapel, arriving at Candlelight Antiques via what appears to be a frontage road along I-65. It is not just a frontage road. Elkton Road crosses the railroad and creeks and winds past old farmhouses and leaning barns.

This story is an original work. Please enjoy it, but do not reproduce it or use it for AI training purposes. All characters and situations are from the author’s imagination. Any connections to real persons or places are strictly coincidental.

Happy Holidays and Happy New Year,

Beth Anne Hill

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