Outside, I can see the snow beginning to fall and I hold my breath. I love the holiday season and I hate it. Being poor makes everything more difficult and the dreams I had as a child for holidays were never realized.

And as an adult, I know that gifts mean so much more when you’ve got no money to spend. Things tend to come from the heart rather than the wallet.

I glance at the clock, wondering why dad’s running late. I know that living at home at twenty-five is kind of ridiculous, but he can’t survive without my income. And I couldn’t afford a place on my own anyway.

It’s not for a lack of work—I work two jobs. But it’s not work that’s got me stressed about dad being late today. Nope, it’s almost time for me to be at the local soup kitchen. I volunteer there five days a week at five o'clock sharp. Right after dad gets off his shift at The Lighthouse—the same kitchen that donates the food we serve at the soup kitchen.

The snow begins to come down in flurries and I shiver under my sweater. The heat’s on, but it’s not cranked as hot as I’d like. It’s warm enough to keep us from freezing to death, but I swear that’s about it.

Finally, I see dad trudging home. But my delight is quickly whisked away by the slump to his shoulders. Something’s wrong. I see it in his movements. In the way he’s dragging his feet and taking his time. Usually he’s glad to come through that door and wrap me up in a hug.

Because we’ve got a great relationship, despite all our worries.

Maybe it’s because mom walked out when I was three for some suit and tie fast-talker who promised her shiny things and a big house if she left us behind. Maybe it’s because I stepped up the moment I could take an odd job. Maybe it’s just because we’ve only ever had each other to lean on that we’re so close. I’m not sure.

It was absolutely strange to know that other kid’s relationships with their parents was one of the adults taking care of the kids, but ours has always been a mutual care for each other. I’d made him dinner from the time I could stand on a chair and reach the counters. Countless nights I’d rubbed his feet for him even when they were so swollen he couldn’t get his damn shoes off from fifteen-hour shifts.

He turns the door handle now and I hand him the dinner I’d made, something I’d picked up just for him. He takes the plate and stares at the burger I’d made especially for him.

When his eyes meet mine, I see how they’re swimming in tears and I pull him into a hug. “What’s wrong?” I whisper, holding him tightly. Whatever it is, we’ll prevail. We always do. We always have. Nothing can destroy us.

He says nothing and I back off, struggling to figure out what’s going on as he stares past me at something behind us on the wall. Something I have a feeling I won’t see even if I turn and look. And for the first time ever, I see something new in his expression. He looks… defeated.

And old. When did all those wrinkles settle around his eyes? How long have those dark bags ringed his blue eyes? And when did they get so watery? When did he get old?

“Daddy?” I whisper, feeling frightened for some unknown reason. This is just so out of character for him. I can’t help but feel something really, really bad happened.

His eyes finally meet mine and he struggles to give me a smile. But it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. And I know for certain something very bad happened. Something life changing. Did mom die?

He sounds tired as he finally speaks. “They fired me, Cindy.”

The words hit me like a sucker punch to the gut. Instinctively, I begin to shake my head no. They couldn’t have. It’s only a month until Christmas. They need him. How will they make it through the holiday without him?

“Why?” I ask, but it’s futile. Dad’s checked out. The light behind his eyes is gone and I almost worry about leaving him. I take out my phone—a shitty little pay by the minute cell phone I needed for my job.

I call the kitchen first. I have to call out. My brain is scrambling, searching for some fix to all of this. I have to find a way to fix it. Without dad’s income, we’ll sink. We’re barely scraping paycheck to paycheck as it is.

This isn’t fair. Something is wrong. Dad’s a good employee. He works hard. He’s not lazy or stupid. Why the hell would they fire him? My astonishment shifts to fury and I decide to talk to his boss. Because clearly, dad can’t even function.

I take his shoulder and lead him to his chair. He sits and I push the food into his lap. “Eat, daddy. I love you.” I kiss his forehead and he gives me a vacant smile.

“I love you too, Cin.” He makes no motion to eat and I feel my heart sinking in my chest. Daddy’s a guy who learned young not to eat unless he earned his meal—a throwback to growing up as one of six kids on a farm.

And he’s not eating.

Angry, I walk out the door and close it behind me while doing my best to not let even a little heat out. The snow laces me in silence and I love it, even as I shiver and hate the stress of the day. I hate missing a night of helping at the kitchen. But this is important.

I zone out and feel consumed with anger during the walk to the office. I know dad’s boss would be in. He runs ten kitchens in the city and he has a central office that he sits on the top floor of, barking orders and sipping strong drinks, I’m sure.

What the hell does the boss do if not enjoy the high life?

I march up and walk in the front door. A desk takes up the whole front of the room and a pretty blond looks up at me with a smile that’s all false warmth. “Can I help you?” she asks in a sunny voice that belongs in California, not here in the snow.

“I need to speak to Mr. Rossi.” I make my voice as forceful as possible.

But the blond shakes her head. “I’m sorry, he has no more appointments tonight. May I take a message?” she asks, her smile glued in place.

Of course he won’t see me. I’m not fucking important enough.

Well, I’ve got a backup plan. Daddy didn’t raise a quitter. Or an idiot. I shake my head and walk out the door, her cheerful voice on my heels.

I know it’s close to closing time, and I hold my breath, hoping I’m not wrong about when Rossi will be off. I hide out and wait as the building’s garage stands forlorn and dusted with snow. I shiver, hoping he’ll be leaving soon.

As if my prayers are answered, the little gate lifts and a dark sedan with tinted windows drives out of the garage. I hold my breath and dash out in front of it, thinking a moment too late that the ice might make it impossible for him to stop in time.

His tires squeal and I hear the sound of skidding as I close my eyes and hope beyond hope that I didn’t make a terrible mistake.