Chapter One

Kent

Thanksgiving was less than a week away. Most years, my home was already decked out in all things Christmas by now. I wasn’t one to wait for it to be “the right time.” Once Halloween was done, my Christmas music was on and slowly, but surely, I added another element of Christmas.

I loved the slow reveal of my method. The first day I would set up my Christmas village on the mantel. It was a hodgepodge of items I collected over the years. The first addition a gnome I found at a yard sale when I was six. It was made of paper and “vintage” according to the woman who sold it to me. She made me promise to keep it safe and, when I did, she gave it to me. Now there were houses and elves and gnomes and plastic reindeer. Anything and everything that looked the part. They weren’t even all the same scale, but I didn’t care. They made me happy.

From there, the order changed, but, by Thanksgiving, I had garland and pictures on the wall, wreaths, at least one tree, dishes, and sun catchers all shouting that Christmas was my favorite. That was until this Christmas.

Today was going to change that— probably. It wasn’t my first attempt to make a start, but I was feeling strong. I could do this.

I pulled the string, releasing the door and the ladder to the attic. It had been a long time since I’d been up there. It was a place I tended to ignore, not because I thought it was haunted, like I did the one in my house when I was a child. No, it was just a dusty, pain in the neck to get to storage space. If it was up there, it was seasonal or nearly forgotten.

Mostly, it held things that I didn’t need anymore but didn’t want to throw away because someday I might. Items such as old college textbooks, some dishes my grandmother gave me in case I wanted a fancy set—which, spoiler alert, I never did— and random stuff like that. But it was also where I kept all things Christmas.

Originally, I had told myself I wasn’t going to do Christmas this year. I could skip over it easily enough. My family was far away, so, aside from sending a gift, I didn’t have any responsibilities. They would never have to know I gave up on my favorite time of year.

Last year sucked. No. That was putting it far too mildly—last year was one of the worst days of my life. And maybe I was being overly dramatic about it, but ,as my first caregiver kink partner, Marie used to say, “Big feelings are for big and little, and we should never minimize them because we think we are supposed to.” She’s been a great mommy. Unlike my last daddy, she never pretended we were more than scene partners, which was great for me. It helped me come into my own as a little without trying to navigate that side of me paired with a blooming relationship. I was sad when she moved away for work.

Thomas, my last Daddy, hadn’t shown me the respect of being honest with me. He told me he loved me, that I was the best boy, and that he was happy to have me in his life. Looking back there were tons of red flags, but I’d ignored every one of them. I’d been so in love I saw that feeling staring back at me when I looked at him.

Last Christmas, it came tumbling down.

I’d been such a good boy. There wasn’t a brat bone in my body. When Daddy told me to do something, I always did it the first time. I followed every single rule, even when he wasn’t there. And when we decorated for Christmas, and he put my presents under the tree, he said, “Don’t touch those until I come.”

And I didn’t.

Instead, on Christmas morning, I woke up, put on my elf clothes—the ones that he picked out for me with the curly toes and the fun hat—and waited.

And I waited.

And I waited. And I waited.

The first few hours, I spent looking at the presents under the tree, wondering what they were. Was it the new teddy bear I wanted? Was it a brand-new sippy cup? Maybe it was a big present. One of the fancy gadgets that he always liked to use.? He’d been on me to get a smart watch. Maybe that was it.

Daddy was the best at presents. It was his thing. If he saw something and it reminded him of me, he bought it. And clothes? He gave me a ton of them, but, in retrospect, those had been more for him. He loved dressing me up.

I played the what if game all morning long, not once touching a present or even moving from my spot. I was a good boy. That was what good boys did.

But, by lunchtime, he still hadn’t shown up and I began to worry. He wasn’t someone to be late. If anything, he was ridiculously on time—to the minute, and he expected the same in return. Daddy had a ton of rules for me. I wasn’t a fan of them but always obeyed

One of his big rules: when I was little, I wasn’t to use the phone. Phones were for big people. There were no exceptions to said rule. And for that reason alone, I spent the next couple of hours staring at my phone, wondering why he hadn’t come and if he was okay. The ratio of why to worry grew exponentially over that time.

Finally, my mind broke, and I was no longer able to keep the whys there. Instead I was spiraling—wandering to dark places. What if he had been in a car accident on the way? What if he needed me? What if he needed a doctor, an ambulance? What if his house had caught fire?

My head turned into a dark and very unfun place. I couldn’t take it anymore. For the first time in our relationship, I disobeyed Daddy on purpose. I sent him a text.

He didn’t respond. No matter how long I stared at it, not so much as a bubble.

Was he mad? Had I ruined Christmas? Or was he unable to read it because he needed me?

I caved and called him. It went straight to voice mail.

I couldn’t take it anymore. If Daddy was in trouble, he needed me. I put on my big clothes and drove to his house—someplace I was told never to go uninvited because his office occupied the front rooms.

When I arrived, I found his driveway empty and the lights in the house off.

So, I did what every boy would do. I went home, turned on cartoons, hugged my stuffie, and cried and cried and cried, sure something horrible had happened to him on his way to me.

Only, nothing had. Nothing at all, because he hadn’t even pretended to come to my house like he’d promised.

The next day, I got a reply to my text.

He didn’t call me Kent. He didn’t call me a sweet boy. No, instead, it was: I’m sorry, but this doesn’t work between us anymore.

I found out a few days later that I hadn’t been Daddy’s only boy. He’d spent Christmas planning a New Year’s Eve wedding for him…and somebody else.

He never loved me.

He never wanted me to be his.

I was his obedient little boy to have scenes with—nothing more.

Taking a big breath, I finished climbing the stairs, willing myself to no longer think about Thomas. Good riddance. I deserved better. Only when reached the attic and looked at the pile of Christmas items, reality slammed into me. I wasn’t ready for Christmas. Not yet.

Down the ladder I went, closing the attic back up.

Maybe it was best to cancel this year. What was fun about being little on Christmas alone, anyway?

Not a thing.