“I want a papa for Christmas,” my four-year-old daughter, Bree, tells Santa. She bounces in his lap and tugs his beard. “A real live papa to play with me and take me to the zoo.”

“You mean a puppy,” I cut in, my face flushed with heat. Ever since I put Bree in preschool, she’s realized she’s missing a father and bugging me to find one. She even suggested we put up posters on telephone poles like they do for lost pets.

“No, silly mama.” Bree crosses her arms and shakes her blond ringlet curls. “I want a papa with two legs and two hands.”

The mall-supplied Santa chuckles. “Ho, ho, ho. And a papa you shall have.”

Giggles and titters spill from the women behind me.

“I need me one of those, too,” a young mother holding a baby boy says. “Let’s see, six-foot-six, blazing hot and built like a fire truck.”

“Oh, yeah,” another mother with two squirmy toddlers replies. “Do they have a catalog? I can spend hours drooling instead of wiping up drool.”

Much like the hours I spent perusing anonymous sperm donor profiles back when I was a successful investment banker worried about aging eggs and the probability of getting struck by lightning without hitting the husband jackpot.

Bree hugs Santa. “Will he be under the tree? Pwo-mise?”

“You bet.” Santa high fives her.

“Picture?” I scramble with my camera, an old Canon point-and-shoot borrowed from my mother, but the battery light flashes and the camera shuts off. Meanwhile, the elf manning the professional camera snaps a few shots of my sweet daughter kissing Santa. Ugh, I wonder how many germs are embedded in that polyester beard?

Santa hands Bree to me and winks. “Shall I put a smartphone under the tree for you?”

I’ll need a lot more than a smartphone: try rent, utilities, and car payments. Not only was I a former investment banker, I was stupid enough to believe my own research and ended up losing everything on a bad tip.

“No, she wants a papa, too.” Bree tugs my coat sleeve. “I hear her praying for one every night.”

Thankfully, Santa doesn’t answer. He’s already receiving the baby from the woman behind me. And actually, no, I’m not praying for a man, but Bree hears what she wants to hear, and in her little mind, all of our problems will be solved when the handsome princely father figure emerges to sweep her off her feet in a cotton candy sleigh drawn by a team of rainbow reindeer.

As for me, I’ll settle for responsible, solvent, and well-endowed, although in my profession, er, former profession, I never saw a need for a man, especially the banking types who kept half the strip clubs in Manhattan in business. No thank you.

The picture-taking elf smirks at me and hands me a ticket for the picture. “It’ll be twenty bucks for a five-by-seven or thirty-five for the package.”

“I want a train ride.” Bree squirms from my arms and points to the Holiday Express miniature train making the rounds inside the enclosed winter wonderland play area in the mall. “When my papa shows up, he’ll take me on the train and we can wave at you.”

Clutching the ticket for Bree’s picture with Santa, I bypass the photo booth conveniently placed near the line for the Holiday Express train. My meager paycheck has to be stretched for the holiday season, the first one since my insider trading conviction. Unable to land a job anywhere close to the financial services industry, I’ve been picking up shifts after-hours, cleaning the very office buildings I’m not allowed to enter as a banker.

But I can afford five dollars for a ride on the Holiday Express. Bree looks at me expectantly and points to the monitor behind the cash register. “Mommy, there’s my picture with Santa.”

“There you are, and don’t you look cute?” I say, dreading her next request to buy it.

The cashier flashes a toothy smile. “We can have it printed while you wait for the Holiday Express.”

“Can we?” Bree bounces on her toes. “He pwo-mised me a papa for Christmas.”

“Maybe after the train, sweetie.” Going for distraction over chancing a meltdown, I hand the cashier a ten dollar bill for our two tickets.

Fortunately, the screen behind her cycles to a baby boy crying on Santa’s lap, and Bree’s attention turns to the candy cane man.

“Mommy, candy cane’s my fa-wor-ite.”

“We have some at home.”

“Those are teeny tiny. I want a big red and green one.”

“We can’t lose our place in line. Oh, look, see the fairy princesses?” I direct her toward three teenaged girls wearing princess outfits.

“They’re so pretty.” Bree’s mesmerized, and I breathe easier. My phone chimes with a text message. I flip it open. It’s my mother reminding me to be on time for Wednesday night church. We’re singing a special together, and she wants to rehearse before the service.

The line inches forward as I text her back. Mama’s nervous about the piano at church not responding like hers. Could I get to church half an hour early to do a dress rehearsal? I’m not sure why she’s so nervous. Maybe it has to do with the handsome widower who recently joined the congregation. I tell her I still have to finish shopping and prepare dinner for Bree, but mother says that’s not a problem. She’ll bring macaroni and cheese and juice boxes to church, and Bree can eat in the multipurpose room. I agree, and Mama replies with her classic line to give Bree a kiss from her.

I text my goodbye and put my phone away. “Bree, Nana’s giving you a kiss.”

She’s not standing anywhere near me. A hot dagger of panic shoots up my chest. “Bree? Oh no, where’s Bree?”

She was here a minute ago. The line hadn’t gone forward by much. Surely, she surged ahead to gawk at the train and the princesses. I jump out of line, looking toward the fairy princesses.

“Bree!” My voice rises to a high-pitched shriek. People are staring, and I’m running in circles. “Have you seen my daughter? Bree! Blonde, wearing a pink Hello Kitty jacket. Bree!”

I rush headlong to the picket fence separating the train tracks. What if she’s on the tracks? “Stop the train. My daughter’s missing.”

A uniformed security guard heads toward me. “What seems to be the problem?”

“My daughter’s missing. She was right here, and now she’s gone. Bree!” My arms flail, and I tear through the line.

“I need a description.” The guard corners me. “Height, weight, what she was wearing.”

“She’s four years old. Name’s Bree Kennedy. Curly blond hair, I don’t know, maybe forty pounds and three-and-a-half feet tall.” My heart pounds in my chest. “We have to find her.”

“We’re trying, ma’am.” He calls into his walkie-talkie. “Missing child. Four-year-old girl. Blonde. Answers to Bree.”

“She was wearing a pink jacket and blue jeans. Dora the Explorer shoes,” I add.

The guard reports into his device, then turns to me. “Why don’t you come to the security office? Maybe someone’s turned her in.”

“No, I want to keep looking.” My eyes are scanning the crowd. “I can’t believe I lost her.”

“It’ll be okay.” He hands me his card. “Give me your number so we can call you.”

I hastily give my number and tuck the card into my purse. Wiping my eyes and trying hard to keep under control, I run around the train ride and check the line of children waiting for Santa. No Bree. No where.

“Have you seen my daughter? Blond hair, blue eyes? Four-year-old?” I’m frantically tapping people’s shoulders. A middle-aged man and his wife join me on my search.

“It shouldn’t be hard to spot a blonde,” he says as his wife nods.

He’s right. My daughter stands out at her preschool where the vast majority of children are ethnic Chinese, East Indian, or Hispanic. I’d noticed that earlier this year when we moved to the San Francisco Bay Area to be close to my mother after I was released from prison.

“What am I going to do?” I wail, my heart galloping with fright. “Bree! Where are you? Mommy’s looking for you.”

So many children and parents mill around, making it hard to spot a little girl on her own. Sympathetic faces turn to me and people murmur. The guard returns to my side and shrugs. “No sign of her. We’ve called the police. Do you have a photograph?”

My legs weaken and I stagger, dropping my purse on the floor. I turn it upside down and scramble through it for my photo wallet. Fat tears drop on my hands.

“Here, here.” My fingers tremble as I give him the wallet-sized photo taken last year back in New York City with the Macy’s Santa Claus.

“We’ve put out a lost child alert to all of the guards and merchants. Every exit has a camera, so if anyone tries to take her out, we’ll have it recorded.” The guard attempts to reassure me.

“What if someone’s taken her to a restroom? What if they’re hurting her?” Sharp pains pierce my gut as I push away horrifying thoughts. “My baby. Oh, God, please bring her back.”

“We’re checking all the restrooms and notified all the stores already,” the guard says. “Please, come to the security office. The police will meet us there.”

I shove my things into my purse and stumble after him, crying uncontrollably. “God, please, God. Help me find Bree. Oh, Bree, where are you?”