It wasn’t the argument that had done it—though there had been plenty.

It wasn’t the icy silence or the weight of words left unsaid. It wasn't the way he'd talk to you in clipped tone, or the way you'd scoot away when he sat beside you.

It wasn’t even the lingering guilt when you watched your son’s eyes dart between you, trying to understand why the house didn’t feel quite as warm anymore.

It was the letter.

Tucked under the Christmas tree, addressed in clumsy handwriting: Santa Claus.

You expected the usual list—action figures, a new bike, maybe even a puppy. But what you read made your chest tighten in a way you hadn’t expected.

'Dear Santa, I don’t need toys. I just want mommy and daddy to be happy again.'

When you handed Simon the piece of paper, his expression shifted. Gone was the stoic mask he usually wore when you argued or avoided each other altogether. In its place was something painfully close to regret.

You both knew the truth. A letter to Santa couldn’t fix this for you. If your son’s wish was going to come true, it had to start with the two of you.

"Guess we’ve got work to do, huh?" he sighed deeply.