Satan or Santa

Four Days LaterDecember 25th; 2024Taylor Swift's Point of ViewIt's absolutely ridiculous. The sheer amount of gifts we ended up getting for Zoë is insane. I told myself over and over again on the drive to the store: five gifts at the most. Five was generous, I thought. Five was reasonable.

But then we walked into the store, and something happened. I felt like a kid in a candy shop—or, more accurately, a toy store—except this time, I wasn't shopping for myself. I was shopping for my daughter. My Zo Zo.

And with an unlimited budget? Forget it.

God, I love that little girl so much. As I walked through the aisles, every toy, every stuffed animal, every little thing with bright colors and glitter practically screamed her name. I wanted her to have everything—the childhood I never had, the one she deserves.

It didn't matter that I originally had a "plan." As I loaded the cart higher and higher with dolls, puzzles, books, and blocks, I realized I was spiraling, but I couldn't stop myself. I just kept grabbing more.

Travis and I were practically racing each other to see who could fill the cart faster. It was chaos in the best and worst way. My carefully thought-out plan—five gifts, no more—was completely obliterated by the time we'd hit the second aisle.

Travis grabbed anything he thought Zoë might remotely like, from stuffed animals bigger than her to a kid-sized drum set that I immediately regretted letting him toss in. I wasn't much better, though. I'd tell myself, this is the last thing, but then I'd spot something else—a cute dollhouse, a board book about kittens, or a sparkly pair of toddler dress-up shoes—and into the cart it went.

By the time we reached the checkout, we weren't just pushing one overflowing cart. Oh no, we had two. Two carts packed to the brim with toys, clothes, books, and anything else that screamed "Christmas magic."

The poor cashier didn't even try to hide her expression. She looked at us like we'd lost our minds, her eyebrows practically reaching her hairline as she scanned item after item. "Someone's having a very Merry Christmas," she finally said, smirking as she glanced between the two of us.

"Not us," I joked, shaking my head. "It's all for my daughter."

"Obviously," Travis chimed in, grinning as he tossed a ridiculously sparkly tiara onto the conveyor belt. "We're not that self-indulgent."

I shot him a look, but it was hard not to laugh. It was ridiculous, sure, but the thought of Zoë waking up to all this made it feel worth it.

As we loaded everything into the car—Travis playing a very aggressive game of trunk Tetris—I leaned against the side of the car and crossed my arms. "This was not the plan."

Travis grinned, wiping sweat from his forehead as he crammed in the last bag. "Plans change."

"She's going to be so spoiled," I said, half worried, half smiling at the thought of Zoë's excitement.

"She deserves it," he said, his voice softer now. "It's her Christmas."

And in that moment, I couldn't argue with him.

It's early Christmas morning now, and the house is still quiet, except for the faint twinkling of the tree lights downstairs. We didn't tell Zoë about her special surprise—how she'd wake up to a mountain of gifts and a breakfast of pancakes, her favorite. I could barely sleep last night, excited to see her reaction.

I open the door to her room and tiptoe inside. Zoë is curled up under her blankets in her crib, her little curls peeking out from the top. The sight of her so peaceful tugs at my heart.

I lean over the crib and whisper, "Zo Zo. Cakes."

She stirs slightly, her nose scrunching up before she opens one eye, then the other. "Cakes?" she mumbles, her voice soft and groggy.

"Cakes," I repeat with a smile. "It's Christmas morning, baby girl. We've got pancakes waiting for you."

Her sleepy confusion melts into a smile, and she starts wiggling out of her blankets. "Cakes!" she says louder this time, her excitement building as her little feet hit the mattress.

I scoop her up into my arms, and she wraps herself around me like a koala. "Mamma, cakes!" she repeats, her eyes bright now.

"Yes, cakes," I say, kissing her forehead. "But we have something else for you too. A big surprise."

"Surprise?" she asks, tilting her head.

"You'll see," I say, carrying her out of the room and down the hall. As we reach the top of the stairs, I hear Travis rustling around in the kitchen, probably burning the pancakes.

Zoë's eyes light up as the scent of syrup wafts up the stairs. "Cakes!" she shouts, squirming in my arms.

"Hold your horses," I laugh, carrying her down. "Pancakes first, then the big surprise."

When we reach the bottom of the stairs, her gaze shifts to the living room. Her jaw drops as she spots the tree, surrounded by an overwhelming sea of brightly wrapped gifts. "Whoa..." she whispers, pointing.

I grin and set her down. "Merry Christmas, Zo Zo."

She stands there, frozen for a second, taking it all in. Then she looks up at me with wide eyes. "For me?"

"All for you," I say.

She lets out an excited squeal and starts bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Cakes and presents!"

Travis walks in at that moment, flipping a pancake onto a plate. "Told you today was going to blow her mind," he says with a grin, watching Zoë bounce between staring at the presents and sniffing the air for pancakes.

Zoë spins around and runs toward the table. "Cakes first!" she declares, climbing into her chair.

"Priorities," I mutter with a laugh, exchanging a look with Travis. He just shrugs and grins, clearly as pleased as I am.

And just like that, Christmas morning is perfect.

I sit down at the table and start digging into my pancake, savoring the buttery sweetness of the syrup. Across from me, Zoë is having the time of her life, shoving pancake pieces into her mouth with her hands, syrup sticking to her little fingers. I grab a napkin and lean over to wipe her face, but she squirms away, too focused on her "cakes" to care about the mess.

Travis sits down with his own plate, looking far too proud of himself for not completely botching breakfast. I glance over at him and say, "You know, I don't think I've ever had a real Christmas."

He looks up, surprised. "Really?"

I shake my head. "I mean, we didn't have the money to celebrate it when we were together."

Travis nods, setting his fork down. "Yeah, we never did gift exchanges or anything special. We couldn't afford it."

I poke at my pancake, thinking back to all those Christmases spent working doubles at the diner, trying to scrape together enough to keep the lights on. "All my money goes to Zo Zo now. I mean, I usually worked on Christmas. There wasn't much point in staying home."

Travis leans back in his chair, his expression softening. "Christmas was nice in my house for a while. My mom used to go all out—decorations, cookies, the whole thing."

"Until it wasn't," I say quietly, already knowing how the rest of that story goes.

He nods. "Yeah. Until it wasn't." He pauses, swirling his fork through the leftover syrup on his plate. "My life was perfect...until it wasn't."

I chuckle lightly, though there's no humor in it. "My life was ass from the start."

That gets a small smile out of him, and for a moment, we just sit there in the quiet, the only sound coming from Zoë as she hums to herself between bites. Despite everything, this moment feels...okay. Peaceful, even.

"It's not your fault, you know," I say, breaking the silence. My voice is soft, careful, but firm enough to let him know I mean it.

Travis immediately stiffens, his eyes darting down to his plate. "Taylor, it's Christmas. I don't want to get into it."

"But it's not your fault, and you can't keep letting it—what's it been? Fifteen years?"

"I killed him, Taylor," he snaps, his tone cutting through the warmth in the room. "I was a dumbass, and it killed him."

I take a deep breath, trying not to let the weight of his guilt suffocate the moment. "A car killed Jason, Travis. Not you."

His jaw clenches, and he looks away like he's trying to wrestle down the emotions bubbling to the surface. "I told him to go long and threw the football into the street. Now he's dead. How the hell isn't that my fault?"

I reach across the table, resting my hand lightly on his arm. "Because you didn't choose for it to happen. You didn't want this. Sometimes... life just happens. As much as we wish we could go back, we can't."

He doesn't say anything, his eyes fixed on some invisible point far away. Zoë's humming and soft chatter feel distant, like the room has been split into two worlds—hers and ours.

"Travis," I say gently. "You're carrying something that's too heavy to hold on your own. You've been carrying it for fifteen years. You've punished yourself long enough."

He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "You don't get it, Taylor. You don't know what it's like to be the reason someone's not here anymore."

I hesitate, my own chest tightening. "Maybe not. But you have to let yourself off the hook. Jason and your mom wouldn't want you to live like this forever."

His eyes finally meet mine, guarded but softer than before. "Maybe. But it's easier said than done."

"I know," I whisper. "But you don't have to do it all at once. Just... stop blaming yourself. Even for a second."

He leans back in his chair, running a hand over his face. "Merry Christmas, huh?"

I manage a small smile. "Merry Christmas."

Travis had the perfect childhood. The kind you see in movies where the grass is always green, and every dinner feels like a celebration. Perfect parents, perfect home, and a perfect bond with his older brother, Jason. They were inseparable—two peas in a pod, always plotting their next adventure. Their shared love of football was the cornerstone of their relationship. Every spare moment was spent tossing a ball back and forth, dreaming of the day they'd both be star athletes.

But perfection has a way of shattering when you least expect it.

One crisp autumn afternoon, ten-year-old Travis and Jason were in their front yard, tossing the ball like always. Travis was feeling competitive, trying to outdo his older brother. "Go long!" he yelled, grinning ear to ear as he cocked his arm back, the football spiraling beautifully into the air.

Jason took off like a rocket, laughing as he chased the ball. But he wasn't looking. Not at the street, not at the world around him—just the ball soaring above. He was too focused to notice the distant hum of an engine growing louder.

Jason caught the ball with a triumphant shout just as his foot hit the pavement. The next moments unfolded in horrifying clarity.

A screech of tires. A desperate, blaring horn. The metallic thud of impact that echoed through the quiet neighborhood.

The world seemed to stand still.

"Jason!" Travis screamed, dropping everything and running toward his brother, who lay crumpled on the asphalt, the football still clutched tightly in his hands.

Neighbors came running. His parents' anguished cries filled the air as they bolted out of the house. The driver—a panicked stranger—kept apologizing, but the words felt meaningless. Jason wasn't moving.

The ambulance arrived too late.

Travis stood frozen on the sidewalk, his world reduced to chaos. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't comprehend how everything had gone so wrong in an instant. All he could think was, I told him to go long. This is my fault.

That moment became the crack that split his perfect life in two. His parents tried their best to comfort him, but no words could touch the guilt eating away at him. No matter how many people told him it wasn't his fault, Travis couldn't shake the belief that if he hadn't thrown that ball, Jason would still be alive.

It wasn't just the loss of his brother. It was the loss of the life he thought they'd have together. The shared dreams of playing football, the sibling rivalry, the laughter. Gone in a single, unthinkable moment. He never touched a football again.

The weight of Jason's death didn't just shatter Travis's world—it fractured his entire family. Grief has a way of hollowing people out, leaving them as shadows of who they once were. His parents tried their best to hold it together, but it was a losing battle. They fought more often, their once-loving home echoing with anger and tears instead of laughter.

Seven months after Jason's death, Travis came home from school to an eerie silence. Normally, his mom would be in the kitchen, humming to herself or starting dinner. But today, the house felt empty, like it had been abandoned.

"Mom?" he called out, dropping his backpack by the door. No answer.

He checked the living room, the kitchen, and even the backyard, but there was no sign of her. His heart started to race. This wasn't like her. She was always there, always keeping busy.

Climbing the stairs, he called out again, his voice trembling now. "Mom?"

The hallway leading to his parents' bedroom felt longer than it ever had before. The door was slightly ajar, and something about it made his stomach churn. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the doorknob.

Pushing it open, Travis stepped inside. For a moment, his brain couldn't process what he was seeing. His mom was there—but not in the way he'd hoped.

She had hung herself.

The sight froze him in place, his mind struggling to catch up with his eyes. Her body swayed slightly, the room deathly quiet except for the creak of the rope. The air felt like it had been sucked out of his lungs.

"No," he whispered, his voice cracking as the word barely escaped his lips. "No, no, no!"

He ran to her, his hands shaking so badly he couldn't even reach up to touch her. He was only eleven—he didn't know what to do, how to help. All he could do was scream, his cries echoing through the house, pleading for her to come back.

The neighbors heard his screams and called for help, but by the time anyone arrived, it was too late.

That day, the fragile remnants of his perfect life crumbled completely. He lost not only his mother but also the warmth and stability she had tried so desperately to maintain after Jason's death. The house became colder, quieter. His father withdrew, retreating into his own grief, leaving Travis to fend for himself in a home filled with memories that felt more like ghosts.

From that point on, Travis learned to carry the unbearable weight of not one, but two tragedies. And no matter how much success or wealth he achieved later in life, the guilt and the loss stayed with him, carved into his very being.

After his mother's death, Travis's father was never the same. The man who had once been his hero—coaching him through drills in the backyard, cheering him on at peewee football games—became someone unrecognizable. Grief had twisted him into something cold and sharp.

At first, his father simply retreated, spending long hours in his room or sitting silently at the kitchen table, a bottle of whiskey his constant companion. But the silence didn't last.

One night, not long after the funeral, Travis had accidentally knocked over a picture frame on the mantle. It was a photo of Jason holding a football, grinning wide as if the world would always be his playground. The glass shattered, and so did his father's restraint.

"You can't even leave his picture alone, can you?" his father barked, his voice slurred and venomous.

Travis froze, tears already welling in his eyes. "I didn't mean to—"

"Didn't mean to? Just like you didn't mean to kill him?" His father's words hit harder than any punishment ever could.

After that night, the accusations came more frequently.

"You think she hung herself because of me? No, it was you. You killed her, Travis. You broke her heart when you killed Jason, and she couldn't take it anymore."

Some mornings, his father wouldn't even look at him. Other days, he'd lash out, drunk or not, his words cutting deeper than any wound.

"You're the reason this family's gone. You ruined everything. You think you're going to be some star now? Guess what—you're nothing. Nothing but a murderer."

Travis tried to drown it out. He spent as much time as he could away from the house, throwing himself into acting, school, anything that would keep him from hearing those words. But they always found their way in, echoing in his mind even when his father wasn't there to say them.

When he finally moved out at eighteen, the relief was immense, but the damage had been done. His father's voice was still with him, a cruel reminder he couldn't shake. No matter how far he ran or how much he achieved, there was always a part of him that believed the man's words—that it was his fault Jason and his mom were gone, that he didn't deserve happiness, that he didn't deserve forgiveness.

•                  •                  •

I laugh softly, my heart swelling as I look at her excitement. "Yep, Zo Zo, presents," I say, crouching down beside her to watch her little eyes light up as she sees the mound of wrapped gifts beneath the tree. Her face beams with pure joy, and for a moment, it feels like everything is right in the world.

Zoë's tiny hands reach for the first gift, almost knocking over a few in her eagerness. I smile and gently guide her toward a smaller one, her little fingers fumbling with the paper as she tries to rip it open. "Slow down, sweetie. We've got all day," I tease, but she's too excited to listen, already ripping the wrapping paper with enthusiasm.

"Presents!" she giggles again, tearing into the next one without hesitation. The joy in her voice is contagious, and I feel a lump in my throat as I watch her. I'm grateful for this moment, for the life she has, and for everything that this Christmas means.

Travis walks in, standing at the doorway with his arms crossed. He watches us, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Guess she likes it," he mutters, though I can see a hint of something deeper in his eyes. He's probably not used to seeing a Christmas like this—the kind filled with warmth, joy, and a little bit of chaos.

"Yeah, she's definitely into it," I reply, my voice soft but full of gratitude. I can't help but think about the Christmases I never had, the ones where it was just me, alone, wishing for something more. But today, we have more than enough. Today, we're making memories.

Zoë, already onto her second present, looks up at me with wide eyes, grinning from ear to ear. "More?" she asks, holding up the gift as if it's the most precious thing she's ever seen.

"More," I agree, and I reach over to grab another gift, handing it to her. She squeals in excitement, tearing into it just as quickly as the last one.

For the first time in a long time, I let myself forget about everything else. The past, the mess, the struggles. In this moment, it's just Zoë, Travis, and me, and that's enough.

I laugh softly, shaking my head as Zoë tears into the next gift with all the enthusiasm of someone who has no idea what's inside. She doesn't even pause to see what it is, her little hands already reaching for the next present as soon as the wrapping paper's torn off. "I think she just likes unwrapping them," I chuckle, watching her barely pay attention to the actual gifts.

Travis leans against the doorframe, a smile tugging at his lips as he watches Zoë. "Yeah, I think you're right," he agrees, his voice warm but with a hint of amusement. He crosses his arms, clearly enjoying the sight of Zoë's boundless energy, even if he's a little skeptical of the whole gift-giving extravaganza.

"I mean, she's got the right idea," I say, laughing a little more. "If I could just get the wrapping paper and leave the rest, I'd be good to go."

Zoë doesn't even seem to hear us, completely absorbed in her mission to destroy all the wrapping paper in sight. She holds up the torn pieces of gift wrap with pride, then moves on to the next package without a second glance at the toy she just unwrapped.

I look at Travis, and we both share a knowing look. "She's definitely got her priorities straight."

Travis raises an eyebrow. "Yeah, I think she's got the whole Christmas thing figured out. Who needs presents when you've got all this paper to rip apart?"

Zoë's laughter fills the room as she pulls another gift out of the pile, and I can't help but laugh along with her. "I guess we're going to have to keep going until she runs out of energy," I joke, watching her happily toss another half-unwrapped gift aside in favor of the next one.

"Good luck with that," Travis smirks. "She's like the Energizer bunny on Christmas crack."

I laugh again, feeling lighter than I have in a while. The world outside may be complicated and messy, but in this moment, with Zoë, Travis, and a mountain of wrapping paper, I wouldn't trade it for anything.

I don't know how long it took, but eventually Zoë stops, her little hands resting on a pile of discarded wrapping paper. She looks up at me with wide eyes, a little pout on her face. "More?" she asks, and I have to admit there's no more. The pile is empty, the last of the gifts already unwrapped and forgotten in the chaos of torn paper and ribbon.

"I'm sorry, baby," I say, kneeling down to her level. "That's all the presents for today."

She blinks at me, processing it for a moment before her lip quivers slightly. But then, as if a lightbulb goes off in her head, she stands up and points at the roll of unused wrapping paper left on the floor.

"More!" she demands again, her tiny voice full of determination.

I can't help but laugh. "You really love the wrapping paper, don't you?"

Just then, Travis walks into the room with a couple rolls of fresh wrapping paper in hand. He must have caught onto what Zoë wants because he holds them up like a gift himself, a smirk on his face."You know, there's plenty more where that came from."

Zoë's eyes light up like Christmas lights as she sees the new rolls. Without hesitation, she rushes over, grabs them, and begins unrolling them like a tiny whirlwind. It's like the gifts never mattered; it's the paper, the crinkly noise, the endless possibility of tearing something apart that truly captures her attention.

Travis and I exchange amused glances, and for the next two hours, that's what Christmas becomes—Zoë happily rolling and crumpling paper, while we watch her with a mix of exasperation and affection.

I lean back on the couch, watching her create her own version of joy out of the simplest thing. "I guess she's not all that into the presents after all."

Travis chuckles, shaking his head. "Who knew? You spend all that time and money, and she just wants the paper." He pauses, looking at her, his expression softening. "But I think this might be the best part of Christmas anyway."

"I guess Christmas can be pretty nice," I say, watching Zoë as she gleefully tears through another roll of wrapping paper. "I never really got to experience it, though. I just bounced between overstuffed foster homes my entire life. We didn't do Christmas. The foster care system is ass."

Travis leans back in the armchair, nursing a mug of coffee. "Do you ever wonder about your parents?" he asks, his tone surprisingly soft.

"All the time," I admit. "Mostly, I wonder what they did with me for the first 13 days of my life before surrendering me. Like, what was the plan there? Did they just stare at me for almost two weeks and then decide, 'Nah, let's bail?'"

He raises an eyebrow, looking genuinely curious. "Thirteen days. I've always found that oddly specific."

"Yeah. I was a 'Safe Haven' baby," I explain. "They dropped me off at a fire station. Just left me there. Thirteen days old."

He frowns, setting his mug down on the table. "I think it's weird they just dropped you at a fire station. I mean, isn't there a more... I don't know, productive way to give up a child?"

I laugh, though it's bitter. "What, like placing an ad in the paper? 'Free baby to a good home'? No, Travis, that's not how it works."

"You know that's not what I meant," he says, rolling his eyes. "I just... I don't get it. Why wait that long? Why not take you to an adoption agency or something?"

I shrug, trying to push down the lump forming in my throat. "I've stopped trying to figure it out. Maybe they panicked. Maybe they didn't want me and just didn't know how to deal with it. Either way, it doesn't change anything. I grew up in the system, and that's all there is to it."

He's quiet for a moment, his gaze drifting to Zoë, who's now wrapping herself in paper like a tiny mummy. "That's messed up," he finally says. "You deserved better."

"Yeah, well, life doesn't exactly hand out participation trophies," I reply, my voice tinged with sarcasm.

He looks down, his fingers tracing the edge of his coffee mug. For a moment, the bravado that usually surrounds him like a shield cracks. "I haven't had a Christmas like this in a long time, you know," he says quietly.

I glance at him, caught off guard by the vulnerability in his voice. "What do you mean?"

He exhales, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "After Jason and my mom passed, my dad just... God, he hated me. He wouldn't celebrate Christmas, my birthday—nothing. All of it just stopped. Like if we pretended those things didn't exist, it wouldn't hurt as much."

I feel the weight of his words settle in the room like a thick fog. "So this is the first Christmas..."

"This is the first real Christmas I've had since my mom died," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "I mean, sure, I had the tree, the lights, the gifts the last couple of years. I could afford all that, right? But what's the point if you're spending it alone? It's just... hollow."

I watch as he runs a hand through his hair, his usual cocky demeanor stripped away entirely. It's strange, seeing him like this—human. Vulnerable. And maybe for the first time, I feel like I understand him just a little better.

"You know," I say softly, "Christmas isn't about all that stuff. The tree, the lights—they don't mean anything without people to share it with."

He nods, a faint, almost bitter smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah. I'm starting to figure that out."

I glance over at Zoë, who's curled up in a pile of torn wrapping paper, her tiny hand clutching a crumpled piece like it's her most prized possession. Her eyelids are heavy, and it's clear she's fighting sleep. I can't help but smile. "She really likes the wrapping paper."

Travis follows my gaze, chuckling softly. "I don't know why we bought the toys."

"We'll show her the gifts later," I say, leaning back in my chair. "She's probably just confused. She's never... had toys before."

He shakes his head, his smile faltering for a moment before returning. "She's creative then. She can have fun with anything." His voice carries a warmth I don't often hear from him, and for a second, it softens the edges of his usual tough exterior.

I look at him, feeling a glimmer of hope. "It's never too late to be involved in her life, you know."

He doesn't answer right away, his eyes fixed on Zoë as she finally gives in to sleep. There's something in his expression—a mixture of regret and longing. "You think she'd let me?" he asks quietly, almost to himself.

"She's two," I reply. "All you have to do is show up."

"I'll think about it."

—————Author's Note:

Idk I kinda wanna die