I’m a single mom, and my two little boys, Ethan and Jake, are everything to me. Christmas is more than just a holiday in our house — it’s the time when we make magic happen.
While other families save for vacations, I’m busy putting aside every bit of extra money for the one thing that makes the holiday special: our Christmas tree. This year, after months of hard work and saving, we finally had our dream tree: seven feet of pure magic, decked out with twinkling lights and precious handmade ornaments.
“Mom! Mom! Look what I made in art class!” Ethan, my 8-year-old whirlwind, burst through the door, backpack flying. He held up a paper snowflake with a photo of the three of us glued in the center, from last summer’s picnic.
“That’s gorgeous, honey!” I knelt to look at it. “Want to hang it on the special branch?”
“Can I put it next to my rocket ship?” Jake, 6 years old and full of energy, pointed proudly at his own creation — a silver-painted toilet paper roll with cardboard fins.
“How about right between your rocket and my angel?” I offered, reaching for the step ladder.
“Best spot ever!” Ethan carefully placed his snowflake, grinning ear to ear. “This tree is like a giant memory book, isn’t it, Mom?”
“Sure is, baby. Every ornament tells our story.”
“And it’s the prettiest tree on the whole street!” Jake twirled around the base. “Even prettier than the one at the mall!”
“Can we add more lights to the top?” Ethan asked with wide eyes, as if the tree wasn’t glowing enough already. “It needs to shine so Santa can see it from the North Pole!”
“Of course, honey. Let’s make it the brightest tree in town.”
But all that joy — all that magic — lasted exactly 21 hours and 16 minutes. Christmas Eve. 5:07 p.m. A knock at the door interrupted our Christmas tunes.
Standing there was Mr. Bryant, our landlord. He looked every bit the part — holding a designer coffee in one hand and the latest-model phone in the other. His cashmere scarf probably cost more than my entire monthly grocery budget. “Suzana!” he barely glanced up from his phone screen. “About the rent…”
I stood tall, trying not to let my irritation show. “It’s not due until next week, Mr. Bryant. Same as always. We’ve still got time.”
“I’m just making sure you’re… aware,” he said coolly, his eyes flicking toward our tree. “What exactly is that thing doing in the yard?”
“Our Christmas tree? We put it up last night—”
“It needs to go,” he cut me off, taking a sip of his coffee and grimacing, as if just looking at our tree offended him. “Fire hazard.”
“Fire hazard? It’s outside, Mr. Bryant. We’ve checked the lights—”
“I’m sending a truck in an hour,” he interrupted again, turning to leave. Then he paused, a sneer creeping up on his face. “Oh, and happy holidays. Try to keep the noise down with all the… festivities.”
Frozen in shock, I stood there, my heart sinking. Inside, my boys were laughing and decorating sugar cookies, blissfully unaware that the spirit of Christmas was about to be ripped away.
And then, the truck arrived.
“Mom, you promised! The tree stays until New Year’s!” Ethan’s voice cracked as the truck workers began disconnecting the lights from our tree. “Tell them to stop!”
Jake, clutching my leg, began to cry. “Why is the mean man taking our Christmas tree? Mommy, please, tell him to stop! Were we bad? I promise I’ll be good. Please don’t take it.”
I pulled them close, struggling to hold back my own tears. “No, baby, you weren’t bad at all. Sometimes, grown-ups make decisions that don’t make sense.”
“But all our ornaments!” Ethan sobbed, his small fists clenched. “My snowflake! Jake’s rocket! Why are they taking everything?”
“Our tree was the prettiest tree on the block,” Jake cried. “It’s not Christmas without a tree!”
I hugged them both tighter, but nothing could stop the heartache as I watched the truck load our tree away — ornaments and all. My boys’ sobs felt like a weight on my chest, and the truck drove off, taking our holiday spirit with it.
Later that night, after I tucked the boys into bed, I sat in our empty living room, staring at the empty patch of grass where our tree had stood. The silence was heavy, broken only by muffled sobs from the boys’ room.
“I hate Mr. Bryant,” Ethan whispered from the hallway, his voice thick with tears. “He stole our Christmas.”
“Me too,” Jake added, barely able to hold back the tears. “Santa won’t even know where to find us without our tree. It’s all Mr. Bryant’s fault. He’s a bad man. I wish the Cookie Monster would take him.”
The next morning, as I drove the boys to their grandma’s for our traditional Christmas breakfast, I took the long way home to clear my head. My stomach twisted as I passed Mr. Bryant’s house.
For a moment, I froze.
There it was. Our tree. Our beloved Christmas tree. It was standing proudly in his yard, every handmade ornament, every decoration, even the crooked star Ethan had insisted on placing himself, still in place.
But now it had a giant golden star on top and a sign that made my blood boil: “MERRY CHRISTMAS FROM THE BRYANTS!”
I dialed Jessie, my best friend since we shared crayons in third grade. “He didn’t just steal a tree,” I choked out. “He stole my kids’ Christmas! Ethan’s snowflake, Jake’s rocket ship… they’re all there, Jess. He’s displaying our memories like they’re his own!”
“That entitled piece of—” Jessie’s voice was filled with fury. “Girl, I haven’t heard you this upset since Jonathan stole your lunch money in fifth grade.”
“At least Jonathan only took my money. This is different. Mr. Bryant… he STOLE our Christmas.”
“And what did we do to Jonathan?”
“We filled his locker with shaving cream and glitter.”
I smiled at the memory. “It took him weeks to get it all out of his jacket.”
“Exactly. So what’s the plan? Because I know you’ve got a plan.”
“Maybe. How do you feel about a little midnight adventure?”
“Girl, I’ve been waiting all year to wear my black yoga pants for crime. What time should I come over?”
At midnight, dressed in black hoodies and armed with supplies from a craft store, Jessie and I crept across Mr. Bryant’s perfectly manicured lawn.
“These gloves make me feel like a cat burglar,” Jessie whispered, carefully removing each ornament from the tree. “Though I doubt most burglars wear unicorn print.”
“More like Santa’s revenge squad!” I grinned as I pulled my boys’ handmade decorations from the bag. “Look, he even kept the candy cane Jake made from pipe cleaners.”
“What a jerk,” Jessie muttered. “Hey, what’s that noise?”
We froze, then burst into nervous giggles as a car passed by and continued down the street.
“Remind me why we’re not just taking the tree and some of your boys’ ornaments?” Jessie asked, struggling with a stubborn ornament.
“Because then we’d be thieves, just like him. We’re going to do something much better.”
We worked quickly, replacing Mr. Bryant’s gaudy additions with something much more fitting. With silver duct tape, we wrote: “PROPERTY OF SUZANA, ETHAN & JAKE!” We topped it off with red and silver glitter spray for extra festive flair.
The next morning, I parked down the street, two cups of coffee in hand, keeping an eye on Mr. Bryant’s house. At 8:15 a.m., his door flew open.
The string of curses that followed could’ve made a sailor blush.
“Everything okay, Mr. Bryant?” Mrs. Adams, his next-door neighbor for 30 years, called out while walking her poodle. She was no-nonsense and wasn’t about to let anyone mess with her neighbors.
“Someone vandalized my tree!” Mr. Bryant gestured wildly, his face a shade of red I didn’t know existed. “This is destruction of private property!”
Mrs. Adams squinted at the tree. “Is that little Jake’s rocket ship ornament? And Ethan’s paper snowflake?”
“What? No! This is my tree!”
“Then why does it say ‘Property of Suzana, Ethan & Jake’ in giant sparkling letters? Wait a minute. Did you steal their tree?”
“I… I… this is outrageous! It was a fire hazard. I just moved it here.”
“What’s outrageous is stealing a single mother’s Christmas tree on Christmas Eve,” Mrs. Adams said, her voice cold as ice. “What would your mother, bless her soul, think of you, Mr. Bryant?”
By noon, photos of Mr. Bryant and the tree were circulating online. One caption read: “When the Grinch Meets Karma.”
That evening, the doorbell rang. Mr. Bryant stood there, our tree dragging behind him. His face was redder than the glitter on his shoes. “Here’s your tree,” he muttered, avoiding my gaze.
“Thank you, Mr. Bryant. The boys will be so happy.”
He turned to leave, but I stopped him. “The rent’s still due on the first,” he said.
“Of course. And Mr. Bryant? You might want to hose down your lawn. I hear glitter lasts until spring.”
An hour later, another knock. Mrs. Adams stood there, smiling, with five neighbors and a perfect tree of their own.
“For inside the house,” she said, giving me a warm hug. “No child should cry on Christmas. And Mr. Bryant should know better. His own mother was a single mom, after all.”
The neighbors helped us set up both trees, sharing cookies and laughter as Ethan and Jake bounced around, hanging their rescued ornaments.
“Mom!” Jake called, placing his rocket ship on a branch. “Look! Now we have two wonderful trees!”
“This is the best Christmas ever!” Ethan cheered, his smile outshining the twinkling lights.
And just like that, our home was filled with joy. As for Mr. Bryant? Karma caught up with him fast, and we haven’t heard from him since.
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