Christmas Eve was almost over when the power suddenly went out. This was a frequent occurrence so far from civilization, but it put a real kink in Mrs. Claus’s plans this time. She was really counting on the coffee to sober her up, and the coffee maker just shut off as it was beginning to drip. Lovely, she thought. If the Fat Ass comes home and sees me this sauced, he’s going to make the elves watch me next year.
This was her one night alone each year, her one chance to let loose. Not that she had anyone to let loose with, as the nearest neighbors were hundreds of miles south in any direction. But she managed to stash a bottle of mint schnapps for the occasion and started pre-gaming while Fatty was carbo-loading the deer.
Who wouldn’t need a tiny break from her husband’s endless cheerfulness, his insistence that everything is jolliness and joy, his denial that they could have built any better life together? But this life was never the plan, really. After all, who the hell would plan to move to the literal ends of the earth, surrounded by tiny freak-gnomes, and work endlessly for the pleasure of other people’s increasingly entitled little brats?
No, the brats should have been theirs, and he knew it. It was the implied contract in their marriage vows, her reason for agreeing to marry him in the first place. If she hadn’t wanted a family, she would have stayed with her college girlfriend, the Tooth Fairy. They were in love, but that Fairy was a wild one, not one to settle down. So Mrs. Claus decided the whole thing had been a phase, and she settled for this near-sighted, morbidly obese nerd with rosacea. But he loved kids, he wanted a family, and he was stable. Or so she thought.
As it turned out, he was never quite ready. “Next year” was always the perfect time for them to start a family. After he finished his screenplay. After he ran that 5K. After he got John Cena to follow him on Instagram.
But none of that ever happened.
And then, inevitably, her biological clock ran out of time. One day, many days too late, her chubby hubby suddenly wanted kids immediately. But you know what, my dude? Lady junk goes bad. They tried a dozen doctors and treatments, all for nothing. Their miracle never came.
Once they gave up hope, they heard that the current Santa Claus was retiring, and they were shocked to be asked to take over the position at the North Pole. It felt like an honor they didn’t deserve. At the time, she didn’t realize that the position was vacant simply because no one else wanted it.
Still, she couldn’t deny that her husband was a natural at it. He jumped into the role with all the holly-jolly enthusiasm that she had hoped he would save for their own kids. He said that they were parenting the whole world, in a way. He insisted that this life was even better than having a family. After all, no psychiatrist ever needed to help a patient unpack any trauma caused by Santa. Wasn’t it better to be loved by all?
Well…no, actually. Not for her. And if he were brutally honest with himself, it wasn’t enough for him either. But this was the fate they were going to live. And usually, she could deal with it, even enjoy it. It was hard to stay bitter when literally everything she owned smelled like strudel.
But this one night a year, she allowed herself to wallow in what could have been. If her husband was going to get a free trip around the world every Christmas Eve, she decided that the least she deserved was a private night to grieve her lost dream.
And so, here she sat to welcome Christmas, blitzed and sick on sugar cookies, surrounded by frozen darkness at the top of the world. She stared at the fireplace, the only light left. The shadows made it easier to imagine her mantle hung with little stockings that would never exist, and a Santa coming down the chimney to leave gifts, rather than just take them away.