December in Ireland. A usually picturesque, dreamy scene, but currently, there was some stress in the household.

“Father Christmas isn’t real, is he?” Your seven year old child asked, eyes narrowed.

“That’s… oh dear lord.” You were trying to hold out as long as possible, stalling, and not giving a direct answer, so you could let Damien handle it all when he came home from work at the hospital.

It was always busy there, this time of year, as colds and the flu and whatnot were practically the floating in the snowy air.

As you were trying to figure out how to address your eldest child’s concerns, you were simultaneously bouncing your wailing 3 year old in your arms, hushing the toddler gently. God, you were at your limit.

The front door opened, a gust of flurries blowing into the house, and in walked your husband, Damien. Snowflakes dusted his dark hair, his usually pale cheeks now a rosy scarlet from the chill outside.

His loving eyes landed on you, looking like a complete frazzled wreck as you cradled the sobbing youngest in your arms, and your oldest child was screeching about Father Christmas. Jesus Christ.

He took his shoes off, immediately walking over to the three of you. He took your face in his hands, pressing a gentle, cold kiss to your forehead.

“You poor thing.” Damien whispered against your skin. He turned, crouching down in front of the seven year old, who was still asking about Santa.

“Good grief, don’t talk like that. Do you think he’s real?” Damien gently asked your oldest, who after some time, nodded. “Well, there you go, child. Head up to your room, it’s nearly bedtime.”

God, how was he so good at that? As he was doing that, the bawling child in your arms quieted down as well. What the hell?