Snow delicately pattered on the windowsill as I watched my younger brother, Ben, open up his Christmas gifts. I could barely make out the red flannel pattern of his pajama pants as he sat cross-legged on the floor underneath his sea of torn-open wrapping paper. As I sat across from him, sipping hot cocoa on the sofa, I felt my phone buzz in my back pocket. I figured it was probably just the first of a flurry of ‘Happy Holiday’ messages from my extended family. Upon opening the message, I realized it was much more than that. A friend left me a message that read:

Courtney,

       I am not having a happy holiday.

The Amazon truck did not come in time.

My younger brother thinks Santa has forgotten about him.

What should I do?

    My friend and her parents are immigrants; she said she thinks their language barrier is what probably led to the late order. Eventually she tried to brush off the fiasco, but I wouldn’t have it. Quietly, I tapped my brother on the shoulder and motioned him to meet me around the corner, away from our parents. Despite only being in grade school, he immediately understood how important the situation was. 

…

“Ben, would you be alright with giving up some of your gifts so that our friends can have a happy holiday? I will be giving most of mine to them as well; I know they would really appreciate it.”

Without a word, he nodded his head, turned on his heel, and got to work.

The two of us piled everything from toy trucks and trains to holiday cookies and candies into gift baskets adorned with shiny green ribbons. To top it off, we added a ‘From Santa’ note. 

…

    As we pulled up to their apartment complex, still dressed in our pajamas, my brother finally spoke.

“I want to be the one to leave the baskets.”

   In a ding-dong-ditch fashion, he scampered into the building, the treads of his slippers leaving footprints in the pristine white snow.