I couldn’t resist this little story by novelist Jane Dougherty.
A short story for Christmas.
Drizzle. Low sky. Grey cloud, or was it fog? What was the difference anyway? Both were wet.
“Will it snow this year?”
“I doubt it.”
“When’s it going to snow, then?”
She said it with a finality that sounded unkind, even to the child who shut up and trudged along in a sullen silence. She hated this time of year, the hysterical jollity of people spending money they didn’t have on things nobody wants. She had managed to pay the gas bill. The house insurance loomed and there was nothing much coming in to refloat the budget.
“Me feet are wet,” the child muttered, dragging on her hand.
She felt like weeping. She knew he needed new shoes, didn’t they all? The two older ones got through shoes at the speed of light. If she bought new shoes would there be enough left…
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