Under The Mistletoe

Joy’s alarm clock shrieked into the dark for the third time, and if she’d had the energy—or the nerve—she might have thrown the entire thing across the room. Instead, she slapped at it blindly, silencing it with a tired groan.

“Okay,” she muttered to herself, rolling onto her back. “Fine. I’m up. I’m up.”

She wasn’t. Not really.

But December didn’t care if she was tired. December had expectations. Orders. Holiday bundles. Cinnamon-sugar body scrubs that wouldn’t pour themselves. Advent calendars waiting for her kids, even though one was in college and the other lived far enough away that she mostly saw him through grainy FaceTime screens.

She pushed herself upright, hair a tangle of red waves that had done whatever they wanted in the middle of the night, and blinked against the faint blue-gray of early morning. Outside her bedroom window, a thin frost shimmered on the lawn. Winter had officially arrived.

And so had the winter market.

Joy swung her legs out of bed and stood, stretching her arms overhead until her spine popped. She padded downstairs, her socks whispering across the hardwood floor, and headed straight for the kitchen. Her sanctuary. Her command center. Her caffeine distribution hub.

She hit the power button on her coffee maker and leaned on the counter, eyes half-closed, inhaling the warm, earthy scent as it filled the room. The first cup of the day always tasted like hope.

While it brewed, she trudged to the bathroom and turned on the shower. A thin stream warmed into a steady spray, fogging the mirror. Steam curled into the air, softening the prickle of early-morning irritability.

She stripped, stepped inside, and let the water wake her fully. December first. Winter market launch day. The busiest, most important month of her year. She should feel excited. She usually did.

But this morning, she felt… heavy. As if the quiet of the house had suddenly grown louder now that the season had officially begun.

Maybe it was because her kids were gone. Maybe it was because the holidays had a way of shining a spotlight on the empty spaces: the other half of the bed, the quiet dinners, the fact that she had wrapped gifts for her children alone for years. She had grown used to it, but some mornings—like this one—it pressed a little harder against her ribs.

“Snap out of it,” she muttered, rinsing her hair. “It’s December. You love December.”

Most of the time.

She towel-dried, moisturized, and blow-dried her hair into soft waves. Then she moved into her room to get dressed, choosing something that whispered cute, cozy, approachable. A cream-colored sweater that hugged her curves, dark jeans, warm socks, and her caramel-colored boots. She added a long scarf—deep cranberry red—and her favorite delicate gold earrings. Not because anyone special would see her. Just because she liked feeling put-together.

By the time she was halfway through her first cup of coffee, she was awake enough to face her phone.

A few store notifications. One shipping confirmation. And—predictably—a text from Lila that had arrived sometime after midnight.

Lila: Mommmmmm. I swear this semester is trying to kill me. Anyway—I love you, I miss you, and I’ll be home on the 20th, so prepare the couch for me to not move from it for at least 48 hours.

Joy snorted softly. Lila had a flair for the dramatic even through text messages.

Joy: You’ll have a bed, not a couch. And I’ll make your favorite hot chocolate. Finish strong, honey.

Lila: Already planning it. I love you.

Joy held the phone against her chest for a moment. That familiar ache—love mixed with longing mixed with pride—warmed her better than the coffee.

She checked her texts again. Nothing from Cole.

That wasn’t unusual. He was busy. He was always busy. She tried not to hover, tried not to mother him too much now that he lived hours away and had a real job, real responsibilities, a life she wasn’t there to witness every day.

Still… it would’ve been nice to hear from him.

She sipped the last of her coffee and typed.

Joy: Morning sweet boy. Thinking of you—hope work isn’t too crazy today. Winter market starts here. I’ll send you pictures. Love you.

She added a little snowflake emoji. Lila said emojis were “cringe,” but Joy didn’t care. Motherhood overruled aesthetic.

No response. Not yet. She set her phone down and sighed.

Coffee poured into her travel mug, she grabbed her tote bag, her coat, and the baskets of candles and lotions she had prepped the night before. The boxes smelled like peppermint, clove, and vanilla. Her entire car was going to smell like holiday sugar for the rest of the week.

She loaded up and got into the driver’s seat, pulling her scarf snug around her neck as she started the car. Frost had dusted the windshield faintly, and she turned on the defrost, blowing hot air across glass and cracked ice.

Her radio clicked on mid-song—a Christmas track, warm and cheerful, about falling in love under twinkling lights.

Joy’s stomach pinched.

“Nope,” she murmured, switching the station immediately.

She wasn’t in the mood for romance. Not imaginary, not real, definitely not musical. Not when she’d wrapped the same knitted throw around herself every night for years. Not when December always threatened to remind her what she no longer had.

She settled on a station that played soft hits—neutral territory—and backed out of the driveway.

As she drove through town, the streets sparked with holiday decorations. Wreaths hung from storefronts. Twinkling lights framed rooftops. Garlands draped the lampposts like ribbons in a child’s hair. People loved her small town for exactly this reason—cozy, quaint, postcard-perfect.

She did too. Most of the time.

She made a mental list, the same way she did every morning of market season.

Extra peppermint lip balm samples.

Square reader fully charged.

Price tags for the new cinnamon-latte candles.

Hot chai candle batch to finish tonight.

Wrap orders for shipping by Monday.

Text Cole again if he didn’t respond.

Buy more packing paper.

And—for the love of everything holy—remember to drink water.

Joy often forgot the water part.

She turned into the community center parking lot. Even from a distance, she could see the bustle—vendors unloading vans and SUVs, strings of lights already stretched across the open-air pavilion, the promise of winter magic humming through the cold air. She spotted Bonnie, the knitted-hat lady who sold homemade jam. Gary, who carved wooden Santas every year. A pair of high school volunteers carrying tables.

Everyone looked energized. Joy felt the first rumble of energy stir in her chest too.

The winter market always brought life to the town. Color. Noise. People. Even a little hope. She had built her business around these markets, around December’s rush. It was stressful, yes, but she thrived in it.

She pulled into a parking spot and sat for a second, travel mug warm between her palms.

“This is your month,” she told herself softly. “Your biggest month. You’re going to have a good day.”

She took a deep breath. A long one. The kind that tried its best to push loneliness out with the exhale.

Then she opened the car door, stepped into the crisp December morning, and let the air bite at her cheeks. Vendors were already waving. Someone called her name. The market buzzed around her like a hive waking up.

Joy squared her shoulders, lifted her boxes, and told herself—not entirely convincingly—that she was ready for whatever this December had planned.

Even the things she didn’t see coming.