In 2 parts, Based on the post from Tx Tall Tales. Listen to the Podcast at Steamy Stories.

Christmas has always been my favorite time of year. I
married young, and had two perfect daughters, but my marriage was far from
perfect. We had been young and in love. I was entering the community college
and Denise was starting her senior year when we decided to tie the knot. Her
family’s ready acceptance of me was a huge factor - the family I’d never had,
making me feel like a real member of theirs. I can admit it now; I probably
loved being a part of the family as much as I loved Denise.

Our split up was inevitable, two teenagers who knew nothing
about life thinking their infatuation with each other would make everything
else workout. I wasn’t an all-star, super jock, Rhodes Scholar with a 12"
swinging cock. I was just your average student, A and B grades, spending some
bench time on the football team to get my letter, and losing my virginity at 18
to the girl I’d eventually marry.

When times got rough, we didn’t know how to handle it, and
struck out at each other. Her family often stepped in and helped out when they
could, but time after time, the great sex wasn’t enough to make up for the
difference in our wants, needs and ambitions.

In the end, we gave up. Sometimes I think it’s a miracle we
made it through 5 years. Our devotion to our children allowed us to finally see
past our own issues, and work out a remarkably amiable truce, with our girls at
the center. Even though Denise and I couldn’t live together, it turned out we
got along a lot better divorced. We shared our daughters’ time, lived only one
neighborhood apart, and worked together as a team to make our personal
differences have as little impact on our girls as possible.

I had initially shared an apartment uptown, but eventually
bought one of the smallest houses in the same school district, just to make
things easier. It was a lot more than I needed most of the time, but when the
girls stayed with me it felt like a home. And we only lived a couple of miles
apart.

The neighborhood was nice, predominantly younger families,
in older, smallish homes. Most of the people were cordial, kept up their
property, and after a few years I knew many by name and would exchange
greetings at the grocery store, or when out shopping. I had become
suburbanized.

This was our fourth Christmas since the divorce. Denise was
living with Eric, who I wish I could despise, but he was a decent guy with a
great job and lousy taste in sports teams. He doted on my girls without trying
to take my place. It had taken a while, but we’d developed a friendship, which
wasn’t a bad thing.

My child support was pegged at just over $1500, with the
kids on my health insurance. Even though we weren’t married long enough for alimony
to kick in, I was paying another $500 a month just to make the kids’ lives
better. And for me, that was all that really mattered.

The expense had been rough at first, but with little to
concentrate on other than work, my performance skyrocketed. Two promotions in
three years had made the financial aspect much less problematic, but increased
travel had made the ability to be available for the girls less guaranteed.
Denise was good about it, and worked with me. In return I picked up some more
of the girls’ expenses, including music lessons and a piano.

At Least we still had Christmas

Christmas was special. We celebrated Christmas as an
extended family. I’d come over early, and we’d have a big family breakfast and
open all the presents together. I really went all out to make sure the girls
got their favorite items. At six and eight years old, they were still young
enough to have simple wants, and the magic of Christmas was as real as it gets.
The in-laws would come over in the afternoon with more presents and we’d have a
good old fashioned Christmas dinner with all the trimmings. It was nice to be
part of something.

I got a Christmas shut-down at work and Denise didn’t, so we
agreed that they’d stay with me from Christmas to New Year’s, and any time she
could get off, we’d usually work out something to get her time with the kids.
It was understood that I wouldn’t leave town, at least not for more than a day.

Summer was great with the 2 weeks I got to spend with them,
and we’d usually spend it on the beach. Christmas was still different.
Christmas was magical.

I always was given the girl’s wish list, but I’d also start
my shopping in late November for the must have items of the season. And I
wasn’t stingy; I’d buy them all up, just to make sure I didn’t miss any.
Stores, online auctions, Craigslist, I’d use any way possible to get my hands
on the hottest presents. The first two years I’d caught hell from Denise for
buying everything on the list, leaving nothing for them to get. Now I received
a separate list of things I wasn’t allowed to buy.

So it was that I had just finished wrapping my forty-fourth
present, all in glitter Barbie paper for Briana, and in Hannah Montana paper
for Allora. December 5th, my earliest date so far to finish the bulk of my
shopping. Sure, I’d pick up a few more things, including something for Denise
and Eric, but my girls were taken care of. The presents were carefully spread
around my living room, where they’d remain on display until just before
Christmas, when I’d bring them over to Denise’s in a big ceremony.

The call came from Denise’s mother, Sharon. It took me 11
minutes flat to get to the hospital. I was still too late. Denise and Briana
had both died en-route. Eric had passed away only ten minutes before I’d
arrived. But Allora, my perfect little Allora, was fighting for her life, in
critical condition. She’d always been a fighter, would never back down from any
challenge. She’d beat this too, I just knew it.

It was a freak accident, with a car dodging out of the way
to miss a coyote on the road. An 18 wheeler behind the car did his best to
avoid the car in front of him, but ended up fishtailing, and taking out a
suburban in the next lane over. That vehicle crossed the median and hit my
ex-wife’s family van head-on. Six dead already and one little girl still
fighting hard for her dear life.

Sharon and I kept a vigil over the little towhead, and when
the doctors came out after 6 hours and declared the worst was over and she was
in stable condition, we fell into each other’s arms and cried like children.

We stayed by her side, one of us always present, and Sharon
called me when my baby woke up and spoke. For three long days we watched her
slowly heal in the hospital, the worst of her bruises, cuts and contusions
blossoming on the second day, and only just starting to fade again. I’m not a
religious guy by nature, but I found myself on my knees beside her bed, praying
to God to take care of her, and giving thanks for pulling her through this
horrendous disaster.

At 4:18 ">4:18
pm on December 7th, she passed away.

No warning, no reason, she was there, and then she wasn’t.
The doctors suspected a clot. I suspected incompetence.

I finally understood how a person could get so down on
themselves that life might not even feel worth living.

I went home and shut myself off from the world. After a
while I took the phone off the hook. Hell, let’s be honest, I ripped the
fucking wires out of the wall so I didn’t have to listen to one more bleeding
heart tell me they were “sorry for my loss”. The cell phone was easier. I just
turned it off.

Several people from work came by and assured me that I could
take as much time as I needed. They’d bring me food, and news, and would leave
as soon as they felt they’d spent the minimum time required socially by the
situation.

Denise’s family took care of the funeral arrangements. They
attempted to call, and even stopped by for my input. I gave them a check for
$10,000 to take care of the girls, nearly wiping out my savings. What was I
goin