I’m Suzana, a single mom with two amazing little boys, Ethan and Jake. Christmas has always been the heart and soul of our family. While other families might spend their savings on vacations or fancy gadgets, I save all year long for one special thing: the perfect Christmas tree.
Every year, it’s the highlight of our holiday, and this year, after months of saving, we finally had it—a magnificent seven-foot tree, glowing with twinkling lights and covered in beautiful, handmade ornaments.
“Mom! Mom! Look what I made!” 8-year-old Ethan burst through the door, backpack swinging wildly, his face glowing with excitement. He was holding a snowflake he’d crafted in art class, and in the middle of it was a photo of the three of us from last summer’s picnic.
“That’s beautiful, honey!” I said, kneeling to take a closer look. “Want to hang it on the special branch?”
“Can I put it next to my rocket ship?” 6-year-old Jake bounced over, his own creation in hand. It was a toilet paper roll painted silver with cardboard fins.
“How about right between your rocket and my angel?” I suggested, reaching for the step ladder.
“Best spot ever!” Ethan exclaimed, carefully placing his snowflake right where he wanted it. “This tree is like a giant memory book, isn’t it, Mom?”
“Sure is, baby. Every ornament tells our story,” I smiled, wrapping my arm around him.
Jake danced around the tree. “It’s the prettiest tree on the block! Even better than the one at the mall!” he shouted, grinning from ear to ear.
Ethan looked up at the top of the tree. “Can we add more lights to the top? We need to make it shine so Santa can see it from the North Pole!”
“Of course, sweetheart. Let’s make it the brightest tree in town,” I said, as we added more lights, filling the room with even more magic.
But just like that, our joy was shattered—21 hours and 16 minutes to be exact.
At exactly 5:07 p.m. on Christmas Eve, as we hummed along to “Jingle Bell Rock,” there was a sharp knock at the door. My heart sank. I knew exactly who it was before I even opened the door.
Standing there, looking every bit as cold as I remembered, was Mr. Bryant, our landlord. In one hand, he held a designer coffee, and in the other, the latest-model phone. His expensive cashmere scarf probably cost more than my entire grocery budget. He barely looked up from his phone screen when he spoke.
“Suzana!” His voice was sharp. “About the rent.”
I straightened up, trying to hide my nervousness. “It’s not due for another week, Mr. Bryant. Same as always. There’s still time, right?”
He glanced up for just a moment, his cold eyes scanning the room before he asked, “What exactly is THAT THING doing in your yard?”
“Our Christmas tree?” I said, confused. “We just put it up. It’s—”
“It needs to go.” He took a slow sip of his coffee, his face turning distasteful. “Fire hazard.”
“Fire hazard? It’s outside! We’ve checked the lights, and—”
“I’m sending a truck in an hour.” He turned to leave, then paused, adding in a flat tone, “Oh, and happy holidays. Try to keep the noise down with all the… festivities.”
Frozen, I watched him walk away, my mind racing. Inside, I could hear the boys happily decorating sugar cookies, completely unaware of the storm brewing outside. And then, the truck arrived.
“Mom, you promised we could keep it until New Year’s!” Ethan’s voice cracked, desperation in his words as the men began pulling the lights from our tree.
“Why is the mean man taking our tree, Mommy? Please, tell him to stop!” Jake’s voice was frantic, his small arms wrapping around my leg, tears falling down his flour-dusted cheeks. “Were we bad? Please tell him to stop! I promise I’ll be good.”
I fought to hold back my tears as I pulled both boys close. “No, baby, you weren’t bad. Sometimes, grown-ups make decisions that don’t make sense.”
“But all our ornaments!” Ethan cried, his little fists clenching in helpless anger. “My snowflake! Jake’s rocket ship! Why are they taking everything?”
“Our tree was the prettiest on the block,” Jake whimpered, his tiny shoulders trembling. “It’s not Christmas without a tree.” I could feel my heart breaking as I watched the men cart away our beautiful tree, ornaments and all. The truck rumbled off, stealing away our Christmas joy.
That night, after I tucked my heartbroken boys into bed, I sat in the empty living room, staring at the bare patch of ground where our tree had once stood. The silence was suffocating, broken only by the soft sniffles coming from their room.
“I hate Mr. Bryant,” Ethan whispered, his voice thick with sadness. “He stole our Christmas.”
“I hate him too,” Jake added, his voice barely audible. “Santa won’t know where to find us without our tree. It’s all his fault. I wish the Cookie Monster would take him.”
The next morning, I dropped the boys off at their grandma’s for our traditional Christmas breakfast. I needed some time to clear my head, so I took the long way home. But when I passed Mr. Bryant’s house, I nearly drove off the road.
There, in his yard, stood our tree. Our Christmas tree. The one we’d decorated with so much love. Every ornament was still there—Ethan’s snowflake, Jake’s rocket ship, even the crooked star Ethan had insisted on placing himself.
But now, it had a huge golden star on top and a sign that made my blood boil: “Merry Christmas from the Bryants.” I was shaking with anger as I called Jessie, my best friend since we were kids.
“He didn’t just steal a tree,” I said, my voice shaking. “He stole my kids’ Christmas. Ethan’s snowflake, Jake’s rocket ship… they’re all there, like he’s taking credit for our memories.”
“That entitled jerk!” Jessie hissed. “I haven’t heard you this mad since Jonathan stole your lunch money in fifth grade.”
“At least Jonathan only took my lunch money. This is different, Jess. Mr. Bryant stole our Christmas!”
“Remember what we did to Jonathan?”
“Yeah… we filled his locker with shaving cream and glitter. It took him weeks to get it out of his jacket.”
Jessie laughed. “So what’s the plan? Because I know you’ve got one. I can hear it in your voice.”
“Maybe. How do you feel about a little midnight adventure?”
“Girl, I’ve been waiting all year to wear my black yoga pants for crime. What time should I come over?”
At midnight, Jessie and I crept across Mr. Bryant’s lawn, dressed in black hoodies and armed with everything we needed to take back what was rightfully ours.
“These gloves make me feel like a cat burglar,” Jessie whispered, carefully removing each ornament. “Though I doubt most burglars use unicorn print.”
“We’re not burglars, Jess. We’re Santa’s revenge squad!” I said, grinning as I gathered our precious decorations. “Look, he even kept Jake’s candy cane made from pipe cleaners.”
“What a jerk,” Jessie muttered, as we worked quickly.
We didn’t want to just steal the tree back. That would make us no better than him. No, we were going to do something much better. Carefully, we draped silver duct tape around the tree, spelling out the words: “PROPERTY OF SUZANA, ETHAN & JAKE!”
Jessie had one more trick up her sleeve: a can of glitter spray. “Red or silver?” she asked.
“Both. It’s Christmas, after all.”
The next morning, I parked down the street with two cups of coffee in hand, my eyes glued to Mr. Bryant’s house. At exactly 8:15 a.m., his front door swung open.
What followed was a string of curses that could have made a sailor blush.
“Everything okay, Mr. Bryant?” Mrs. Adams, his next-door neighbor, called out as she walked her poodle. “Someone vandalized my tree!”
“Everything’s fine, Mrs. Adams! Someone’s destroying my tree!” Mr. Bryant’s face turned bright red, eyes wide with disbelief.
“Is that little Jake’s rocket ship ornament? And Ethan’s snowflake?” Mrs. Adams asked, peering closer.
“WHAT? No! This is my tree!” Mr. Bryant’s voice wavered.
“Then why does it say ‘Property of Suzana, Ethan & Jake’ in giant sparkling letters?” Mrs. Adams asked, raising an eyebrow. “Wait a minute… Did you steal their tree?”
“I… I… This is outrageous! It was a fire hazard! I just moved it here!” Mr. Bryant stammered.
“What’s outrageous,” Mrs. Adams said coldly, “is stealing a single mother’s Christmas tree on Christmas Eve. What would your mother think, Mr. Bryant?”
By noon, photos of Mr. Bryant and the tree were circulating online, accompanied by captions like: “When the Grinch Meets Karma” and “Why Stealing Someone’s Christmas Is a Bad Idea!”
That evening, the doorbell rang. It was Mr. Bryant, looking like he’d just been dragged through a snowstorm, our tree in tow. “Here’s your tree,” he mumbled, avoiding my gaze. Glitter sparkled on his shoes.
“Thank you, Mr. Bryant. The boys will be thrilled,” I said, smiling sweetly.
He turned to leave, then paused. “The rent’s still due on the first.”
“Of course,” I said. “And Mr. Bryant? You might want to hose down your lawn. Glitter tends to stick around… through spring.”
Just an hour later, there was another knock at the door. Mrs. Adams stood there, her arms full of ornaments, cookies, and a gorgeous new Christmas tree.
“For inside the house,” she said warmly, hugging me tight. “No child should cry on Christmas. And Mr. Bryant should know better. His own mother was a single mom, back in the day.”
With the neighbors’ help, we set up both trees. As Ethan and Jake hung their new ornaments and played with their old ones, their laughter filled the room.
“Mom!” Jake said, carefully placing his rocket ship on a branch. “Look! Now we have two wonderful trees!”
“This is the best Christmas ever!” Ethan added, his smile brighter than any star on a tree.
And just like that, our home was filled with joy, love, and Christmas magic. As for Mr. Bryant? He hasn’t bothered us since. Karma, it seems, really is the gift that keeps on giving.
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