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FIVE-YEAR-OLD TOMMY
Five-year-old Tommy woke up before the alarm rang, crawled under the duvet with me, and whispered excitedly,
Dad, I dreamt about Mum last night.
I woke up instantly.
Mum said shell come back to us as soon as the first snow falls, my son whispered on, Dad, is it going to snow soon?
Soon, I replied, jumping out of bed and flicking on the light. Right, lets get up, Tommy. Breakfast, and then off to nursery.
I dont want to.
Dont want what?
Breakfast.
I dont want it either, I sighed. But we have to.
Why?
We just do. Were men, you and me. What if we have to rescue someone today, and we havent got any strength?
Dad, is Mum coming back?
That was the hardest question. Tommys mum had been gone from this world for a whole year, but my son was still waiting for her.
Shell come back, I answered as cheerfully as I could.
From the sky?
Yeah. Shell be a bit different, though.
How different?
Her face shell look different. But shell be just as kind. And shell love you.
I wish it would snow soon, my son sighed.
Half an hour later, I handed him over to the nursery teacher and dashed for the bus. My old car had refused to start again; the November cold had finally killed off the ancient battery, and now Id have to buy a new one.
I still made it to work on time. Slumped into my chair, switched on the computer, and stared blankly at the monitor.
Alright, Dave! called Mark, who sat at the desk beside me. Dont doze off, the boss will be here soon.
Im not dozing, I replied, Morning.
By the way, rumour has it were getting a new girl in our department. Young. So youll have to look after her.
What for? I shot Mark a questioning glance.
Cause youre a single dad. You need a new wife.
Oh, not you as well, Mark? Listen, Im not a single dad. Im just a dad, raising his son.
But Tommy needs a mum. Doesnt he?
Of course I sighed heavily. But shes got to be the right mum.
And what if this one is?
Who?
The new girl.
Give it a rest I went back to staring at the monitor, trying to focus on work.
The day dragged on.
In the afternoon, I couldnt stand it anymore and asked to leave an hour early. I decided to pick Tommy up first, and then nip to the car parts shop and finally buy that battery.
I hurried from the office and stopped dead fat, wet snowflakes were falling from the sky.
I froze, thinking instantly of Tommy. My heart tightened. I rushed to the bus stop.
But just as I was crossing the road, I noticed a young woman struggling to loosen the wheel nuts on her car, her hands bright red and soaked through with cold. Without really thinking, I walked over and said, perhaps more crossly than I intended,
What are you doing this yourself for? Dont you have a man to help?
No she replied, matter-of-factly.
I can do it myself. Its just this snow. My hands are freezing.
Oh, for goodness sake I knelt down beside her. Look, Id help properly, but Im in a real rush.
Im not asking, she answered, calm as you like.
Thats even worse, I blurted out before I could help myself. Look, if I switch your wheel quickly, can you give me a lift to the nursery? My sons waiting for me.
Really? she exhaled with relief. Of course, Ill give you a lift
It took me ages with the wheel. The spare was flat so I had to pump it up with a hand pump, thank God it was lying in the boot.
As I climbed into the car, pleased with myself, the woman said,
Did you notice, its the first snow
My heart tightened again, so much that I actually groaned, clenching my jaw.
Whats wrong? she asked.
Nothing. Shall we go?
Lets, she smiled. Which direction?
Straight for now. Ill tell you when to turn.
The snow was falling thicker by the minute. We drove in silence. When we arrived at the nursery, the woman suddenly offered,
Ill wait for you. I can give you a lift home after.
No, dont worry. I still need to pop into the auto parts place.
Even better! she beamed. I need to go there too. And unlike you, Im not in any rush. No man, as you know. The snows absolutely pouring your little lad will get soaked
Its alright, really I blurted and hurried out of the car and into the nursery.
When Tommy and I came out, the womans car was still parked outside. She was standing beside it, catching wet flakes on her tongue, just like a child.
When she spotted us, she waved delightedly.
Hey, come on! I waited for you!
Tommy stopped, confused, and stared at me in amazement. Then he looked at the woman, uncertain, and finally said,
Is that Mum? Dad, thats Mum I told you The first snow, and she
He broke into a run and flung himself into her arms. And she, not one bit surprised, swept him up and spun with him through the falling snow.

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Single Dad
Seven Days to Go On Monday evening, the hot water was cut off again in a small English town. Not everywhere—just a few houses by the market—but people talked as though the Thames had been dammed. There were arguments at the bakery kiosk, complaints in the queue for clementines, debates about pipework age on the local bus. The pavements glittered with damp patches, and the Christmas lights strung above the high street felt a little too eager for the season. Tamara Evans shut the door to her haberdashery department after a customer and rubbed the small of her back. It was stuffy among the jumpers with reindeer, thick socks, and pyjamas stitched with “Happy New Year” and other phrases whose meanings escaped her. The lamp above the counter flickered softly, emitting a sound like someone murmuring in the corner. There were twenty minutes left before closing. Tamara mentally tallied up the day’s takings and pictured putting the kettle on at home, sitting by the window, and calling her son. They hadn’t spoken for nearly a fortnight, ever since their row about money and his new job. He’d said he couldn’t send anything this month, what with the mortgage and needing to “think of the future.” She’d snapped back, then snapped again. Now his name appeared in her contacts list like a stranger’s. The shop door creaked: in walked a woman in a puffer coat with a dangling puppy-shaped button. “Socks for my husband,” she said as she shook rain from her shoulders. “He keeps wearing the same old pair.” “As they do,” Tamara replied, with the practiced smile of a shopkeeper, handing over a pack on offer. While the woman sorted through the socks, Tamara’s mobile vibrated in her apron pocket—an unfamiliar number, but an unmistakably local code. “Try these,” Tamara told the customer automatically, ringing up the sale as her phone buzzed insistently. “Do excuse me—just a moment.” She stepped back, hit green. “Hello?” “Good evening—is this the Knits & Bits shop by the market?” “Yes, it is. How can I help?” “I, um… last week I bought a blue jumper with diamonds on it. The receipt said exchanges okay if there was an issue, but I think I might have dialled the wrong number off the ink-smudged till slip. Sorry if I’m bothering the wrong person…” She glanced at the folded blue jumpers on the counter. “We sell those—sounds like you dialled perfectly.” “Really?” The man sounded relieved. “I wasn’t sure if the last digit was a one or a seven. I’ll pop by tomorrow?” “We’re open until six—bring it in and we’ll sort something out.” “Thank you,” said the man with a sigh. “My wife’s embarrassed she got the size wrong.” Tamara hung up, finished with her customer, and locked up after the last person left. She stared at her phone for a long while, thumb hovering over her son’s name, but in the end, she put the phone away. “Tomorrow,” she thought. “There’s still time tomorrow.” At that same moment, the Number 3 bus squeezed past the market. At the wheel, Nick Peters grumbled under his breath—some idiot had parked across the pharmacy stop, blocking the layby. Passengers exchanged mutterings about the timetable, as if louder complaints would make the bus move faster. “I can see it, thanks!” he called gruffly, clutching the gearstick. “First day behind the wheel, is it?” Fifty-seven and well-acquainted with every pothole, Nick missed the old winters—not the icy ruts or endless jams, but the way fairy lights reflected on snowdrifts at dusk. Next up: the library stop. A woman with a pom-pom beanie clambered on, clutching a carrier bag from “Sally’s Corner Shop.” A surly teenager with headphones and an elderly gent with a cane followed after. “Fares, please,” said Nick as change and tap cards made their rounds. The scent of clementines and wet coats filled the air. The radio fizzed, searching for a festive tune. “Are you going all the way to the station?” someone called from the back. “All the way,” Nick replied. The words echoed those his old colleague once said—the man two years gone, another heart attack. Since then, Nick had grown quieter at home with his wife—they lived like polite strangers. Their daughter phoned monthly, her words breezy and hurried as if saying hello in passing, and still he nodded along unseen at the other end. At the post office traffic light, his phone flashed: “New shift schedule from seven tomorrow, collect from depot.” He sighed. An earlier start, less sleep. Sometimes he woke and thought it all temporary, that soon he’d find a way out. But then he’d remember his age, the bills, and the pills for his wife, and his racing thoughts would quieten. At the Library stop, a woman with a crossbody bag boarded. Nick recognised her but couldn’t place where from. She fumbled for her wallet at the ticket machine, met his eyes, and stopped short. “Nick?” she asked softly. He blinked. “Tanya? It’s been years…” She smiled awkwardly as she paid her fare. “Thought you’d switched routes?” “Transferred,” he replied. “Since the first. Just for now.” Tanya retreated to a seat, gripping the handrail. She’d been his first wife—they divorced twenty years back, their daughter only ten at the time. Their lives diverged, meeting briefly at family dos, occasionally. Now—library, local bus, end of December. “Hold tight,” Nick said into the microphone—for her, not the busload. “Road’s a bit slick.” Not really—just easier than saying anything real. In the library, where Tanya Evans prepared to start her shift, the college student volunteers were already untangling last year’s decorations and gluing glitter to poster paper. Paper snowflakes dangled from the ceiling. Tanya, head of lending, dropped her overnight bag by her desk to find her colleague in a panic: the returns computer frozen blue-screen, a queue of borrowers impatiently waiting. She restarted it, glancing at the returns trolley—there, a slim green volume with something white tucked inside. “What’s this?” she asked her colleague. “Someone rushed back the book, said they had to dash. I scribbled their name somewhere, but now the note’s lost in the piles.” Tanya pulled open the book—inside was a photograph. A boy, maybe eight, grinning from a sledge, beside a man in a heavy woolly hat. Towering snowdrifts behind. The edges were worn, the print faded. Looking closer at the man’s smile, Tanya felt a jolt of familiarity—Nick’s smile, once upon a time, when laughter was easy. No, not him, not really. Just a certain shape of face and gaze. “Odd,” she muttered. “Wonder who left it.” “Maybe didn’t notice,” her colleague guessed. “Or they wanted it left.” Carefully, Tanya replaced the photo, setting the book aside. She’d go through the retraced returns list later. For a moment, she felt as if the photograph had been left for her. Nonsense, she told herself. Coincidence. Elsewhere, the local group chat buzzed—someone had lost a bag of presents on the Number 3. Inside were toys, warm mittens, and an unsigned card. Rumour had it the driver handed the bag to a boy at the park whose mother, as it turned out, was the owner. Stories bounced around, facts blurred into legend. Later that night, Nick Peters read all this from his sofa, feet up, as the streetlights flickered outside. He’d found the package himself that afternoon, meant to leave it at the depot, but a boy with a thin jacket had called out near the park. “Mister, are you waiting for Santa?” “Are you?” Nick had replied. The boy had shrugged—“Mum says Santa’s busy, he’s got lots on.” Nick handed him the bag. “Take this for your mum—tell her everything’s sorted.” The boy’s eyes widened, thanked him, and ran. Only later did Nick wonder if he’d handed over the right bag. The chat said all was well, that the boy was a “good sort.” Nick smirked. “A good sort, careless driver.” Sleep came easier that night. The next day, Tamara’s blue-jumper customer turned up—a short man, battered coat, shopping bag in hand. “Are you the lady from the phone?” he asked. “That’s me. Got the jumper?” She checked it—sleeves too short. “Let’s swap—here’s the right size.” While she hunted for it, the man rummaged in his pocket. “You got good heating here?” he asked. “It was off yesterday, but we’ve a little water heater.” “Lucky. Ours has been off and on for weeks. My wife says Christmas isn’t Christmas without hot water.” He passed her a folded slip of paper. “I do tech support—saw your phone echoes a lot. Old model—they’re easy to upgrade. Here’s a number for cheap deals.” That evening, Tamara turned the note over in her hands. Then, without thinking further, she dialled her son’s number and—before she could change her mind—pressed call. “Hello, Mum?” He picked up at once, voice less tense than before. She grinned. “Could you help me with my phone? I’m told it’s outdated.” He began explaining tariffs and models, and for the first time in ages, the conversation was businesslike instead of brittle. And then: “Mum, about the argument—I lost my temper. I’m sorry, alright?” She breathed out. “So was I.” On the third day, the town finally got snow. Grey skies all morning, then gentle flakes at noon—softening roofs, trees, the “Market” sign with its broken ‘O’. People huddled near the library stop, hiding their cheeks in woolly scarves. The Number 3 was running ten minutes late. Someone was composing a complaint online when, around the corner, the yellow bus appeared. “At last,” someone muttered. Nick Peters opened the doors: Tanya was among those boarding, this time opting for a seat near the front. “Hello,” she said, money ready. “Hello,” he replied, flustered to hear himself say it so formally. The bus rumbled on, wipers lazily brushing snow from the glass. “I found a photo at the library: a boy on a sledge, a man beside him. Looks local, proper old snow!” Nick smiled faintly. “Winters were different then.” “Weren’t they? I thought someone might want it back—it must mean something.” He nodded, uncertain. An image flickered of a long-lost picture of his own daughter, aged seven, at his parents’ place in Devon—buried somewhere, unopened for years. “If you like, I’ll put up a notice,” Tanya offered. “See if someone claims it.” “Please do,” he replied. “Folk need reminding of what they’ve lost.” She looked at him, softer than before. “How are you?” “Working,” he replied automatically. “You?” “Same as ever.” She smiled. “Snow’s a joy for children, worries for adults.” They both chuckled. Someone behind them grumbled again about cold showers, and another suggested it was a good excuse to toughen up. Back at the library, the phone rang. “Town Library, Tanya speaking.” “Oh, hi—I brought back a book yesterday, and I’ve just realised I left a photo in it. It’s of my husband and son—you haven’t found it?” Tanya smiled. “We did—come and collect it whenever you like.” “Oh, thank you! I’ve turned the house upside-down. It’s the only one with them both—my husband died last year.” When the woman arrived—petite, dark coat, red scarf—she took the picture gently, as though it might shatter. “I thought it was lost forever,” she whispered. “Sometimes things do come back,” Tanya said. “Even when it feels impossible.” The woman pressed a box of chocolates into her hand before leaving, head bowed. “Happy New Year,” she said. “You saved mine.” Tanya watched her go, marvelling at how a stray moment or small delay had made all the difference. By evening of the fourth day, the town had changed—snow over streets and bins, oranges for sale atop icy crates at the market. Flickering fairy lights were strung between the stalls, weaving a wobbly but persistent sense of celebration. Tamara Evans finished work, clutching a bag where a tin of green peas clanked under her arm. She bought a cabbage pasty from the bakery van and ate it hot in the cold air. Her phone buzzed: another unfamiliar number with that now-familiar code. “Hello?” she answered. “Oh, I’m sorry—I must have the wrong number. I was looking for the son of the window-fitter—someone said to ring this number. But you’re—?” “A shop assistant,” Tamara replied, surprised. “Sorry, I’m just flustered. My mum lives alone, and the draughts are dreadful—I can’t visit for New Year, so I thought I’d at least get the windows sorted so she won’t notice my absence so much.” Tamara listened, picking up on the tiredness, guilt, and longing beneath the woman’s words. “Tell her the truth,” Tamara said gently. “Gifts are lovely, but your voice means more.” “Do you think so?” the woman asked anxiously. “I just—she’ll be disappointed.” “She will,” Tamara said honestly. “But if you don’t say, it’ll be worse. She’ll be waiting.” A long pause. “Thank you,” the woman said. “I didn’t mean to call, but I’m glad I did. I will ring her tonight.” They said their goodbyes. Tamara put her phone away, lighter inside. Maybe her son was also afraid to say something important. Maybe that odd phone call was a sign that she wasn’t alone in finding things hard. That night, the library’s internet dropped out. Readers grumbled but stayed, flicking through paperbacks by lamplight. Tanya wandered the shelves, helping people look for what was lost. She noticed her new notice on the board: “Found: photograph of boy on sledge and man. See library.” Below, someone else had taped: “Bag of presents found on Number 3 bus—all returned safely. Thanks to the driver.” It was signed: “Admin, ‘Our Community’ Group.” “Miracles Board,” joked her colleague. “Someone will post that they’ve lost their heart next.” “Or hope,” Tanya replied, and they both laughed—a gentle, unbitter sound. On the fifth day, December 30th, the town moved into festive overdrive. The market crowd jostled for chicken, speculated over the price of mayo for salads. By the square, a stage was being set up, soundchecks echoing: “One, two, three…” Nick dropped his last passengers at the depot and nipped inside for the new rota. The walls smelt of coffee and stale tobacco; the old clock was ten minutes slow. “Morning, Nick!” the young depot manager called. “There was a lady here earlier—from the library. Left you a note.” Nick read: “Nick—if you have time, pop into the library. Tanya. [number].” He stared at it as though there was more written than met the eye before folding it away and stepping back outside into the snow. Instead of heading to the bus, he headed for the library. It took ten minutes. He spent them wondering what to say, but there was nothing special in mind. Inside, fairy lights glittered in the warm hush. A tattered bauble on the tree reflected a dulled stripe of paint. In the lending office, Tanya rose as he entered. “You came,” she said. “I half-thought you wouldn’t.” “Collected my new rota,” he excused. “Short on time lately.” “Well, then let’s not waste it.” She pulled out an old envelope with his name and their address from decades ago. “I found this between the books—an unsent letter. I just… thought you ought to have it now. Not to read aloud—not to discuss. Just to keep.” He took it. His fingers trembled. “Are you sure?” “It’s what I never said back then. Too late to say it now, but maybe not too late to let it go.” They stood in a hush broken only by the distant turn of a page. He said, “There’s plenty I never said, either. But I never did know what to write.” “You could just drop by,” she said. “The Number 3 goes right past.” He nodded. Inside, it felt like an unseen hand had shifted the furniture in a room he’d lived in for years—somehow, suddenly, there was more space. Meanwhile, Tamara stood at the threshold of her shop, watching people rush by with bags. Her shopping list for tomorrow clutched tight. Her son had promised to come by midday on the 31st—they’d agreed during a recent call, wedged between phone tariffs and tech questions. “Only a quick visit,” he’d warned. “Got the 1st shift. But I’ll come.” “Come,” she replied. “I’ll make your favourite salad.” Now, watching the crowds, she marvelled at how such small promises felt almost like miracles these days. A woman in a red scarf approached—a stranger to Tamara, but the same woman who’d come for the photograph at the library. “Do you have warm men’s socks?” the woman asked. “For my son—his first Christmas working away, up North on a building site. I want him warm, even there.” They chatted briefly; the woman left, socks tucked in a bag from the shop where she’d once bought a blue jumper with diamonds. That evening, December 30th, the town was locked in traffic. Car headlights shimmered across snow. The square’s fairground chattered with tea sellers and frying sausages; spotlights whistled above the stage as tech crews tinkered. At the market stop, three people met: Nick pulled up the Number 3, opening the doors to let Tanya in with a bag of clementines, and Tamara, groceries rattling in her carrier. “Fares, please,” said Nick. Tanya smiled as she offered her money. Tamara, without looking, handed over a coin; then glanced up. “Are you the driver who found the bag of gifts?” Tamara asked suddenly. “There was a post about it online.” “Could be me,” he shrugged. “There was a kid…” “That’s my grandson,” Tanya chimed in. “Well, practically—not by blood, but I always call him that. His mum said he spent all day telling people something magical had happened.” Nick shrugged again. “Just a bag, back where it belonged. Happens.” “Not always,” Tamara said softly. “Things don’t always come back.” They fell quiet. Someone at the rear discussed the best value fireworks; the radio played a familiar carol. “You know,” Tanya turned to Tamara, “did you tell a woman over the phone not to lie to her mum about Christmas?” Startled, Tamara shook her head. “I don’t know—maybe? I talked to someone who dialled wrong.” “My friend said she misdialed and ended up talking to a shop lady. She said the voice sounded very like yours.” Tamara chuckled. “Small world—I didn’t even realise anyone listened to me.” “Sometimes one word can change everything,” Nick observed. They rode in silence, each busy with their own thoughts, yet sensing threads thinning and tightening, linking their lives in subtle, invisible ways—not magic, but the ordinary miracles of small decisions. On New Year’s Eve, the town glowed. The snow sparkled beneath lamps, and golden light spilled from windows. The square swelled with crowds, children whirling about the tree, parents snapping phone photos. Tamara laid the table; the scent of salad and roast chicken filled her kitchen. Clementines lined the windowsill. Nine-fifty on the kitchen clock—her son was running late. She called him. “Mum—I’m nearly there, just stuck in traffic. Don’t worry.” “I’m not worried,” she assured, flustered and elated. “I’m just—waiting.” “I’ll be there. I promise.” She smiled, putting the kettle on. His slippers, freshly set out, waited by the door. Nick sat at his kitchen table, watching the snowy garden. His wife sorted pills into her organiser. The TV muttered with the local mayor’s New Year speech. “Not working tonight?” she asked. “No—back in tomorrow.” He took out the old letter Tanya had handed him, tore open the edge, and read the first lines—apologies, regrets, confessions of exhaustion and uncertainty. He finished it, put it away. “Old letter?” his wife asked. “One that arrived just in time,” Nick replied. He poured tea, cut a slice of cake. His phone beeped—his daughter: “Dad, happy new year. Watch the telly at midnight—I’ll be in the crowd and wave!” He smiled, texting back: “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Tanya spent New Year’s alone on her third-floor flat overlooking the school. Clementines, salad, and sausage on the table; the TV playing softly. On the windowsill rested a copy of the found photograph—its original reclaimed, the print left “for memory’s sake.” She placed the copy beside a childhood photo of her own daughter, both surrounded by deep-set snow. At five to midnight, the phone rang. “Mum—I made it out of work! I’m outside watching the crowd—Happy New Year!” “Happy New Year, sweetheart,” Tanya said. “Keep warm!” They talked for a few minutes, then Tanya took her place at the window, looking down at the square where strangers gathered: Tamara and her son, Nick and his wife, the lady in the red scarf with her child clutching a returned soft toy, a depot manager with a girl from the bakery, and the woman who’d phoned by accident but had finally called her mother, and arranged for new windows all the same. People mingled, unaware of their connections, intertwined by invisible threads. The compère spoke, but no one really listened—all eyes on the clock tower. Just before midnight, a man in a dark coat and woolly hat passed through the square. He drifted through the throng, pausing by the tree’s star, then moved on, unseen by all except a small boy, who grinned and waved. The man smiled and walked on, lost in the crowd. The chimes began, and the town erupted: cheers, embraces, fizzy corks popping. Snow was falling, settling on shoulders, hats, and scarves. Tamara stood beside her son, who held a lemonade in hand. “Happy New Year, Mum,” he said, hugging her. “Happy New Year,” she replied, her voice thickening. Nick watched the stage lights glimmer. His wife leaned close, gripping his arm more tightly than usual. “I’m glad we came out,” she said. “It’s been so long.” “Yes,” he agreed. Tanya heard the celebrations in distant echoes, glasses clinking next door, laughter rising from the street. She raised her own glass, murmured to the empty room, “Happy New Year.” On her shelf, the two photographs glinted in the coloured glow of fairy lights. In the little town—where, only a week before, there was no snow, no hot water, and not much belief in miracles—people went to sleep with a curious sense of calm. No one had won the lottery, no one had been magically healed or met a fairy godparent. Yet someone had recovered a lost photo; someone else, a bag of presents. Someone had dialled the “wrong” number and spoken the truth. Someone had handed over an old letter; someone else had arrived, just as promised. All small, barely-noticed shifts, forming a pattern felt more than seen. The snow fell through the night. Next morning, January 1st, the caretakers were out with shovels, children with sledges, grown-ups with recycling and mild hangovers. The Number 3 bus left the depot at seven. In the clothing store, the fairy lights twinkled in the window. In the library, new books lay stacked, smelling of fresh ink. Life went on. And somewhere, between houses, buses, phone calls, and photographs, perhaps someone quietly carried on tugging at unseen threads, weaving things back together for those who thought them lost. Or maybe it was simply the townsfolk themselves, not always noticing exactly how. Either way, this year, the little town had the unshakeable feeling that the world cared—and for now, that was enough.