Empty Cupboards
The fluorescent lights of Brennan's Department Store cast everything in a harsh, clinical glow that made Sarah Mitchell's eyes ache. Or maybe that was just the exhaustion. She'd been on her feet for seven hours straight, and her shift didn't end for another three. "Excuse me, miss?"
An elderly woman held up a cashmere scarf, price tag dangling. "Do you have this in navy?" Sarah summoned a smile from somewhere deep, somewhere that still remembered how to pretend everything was fine. "Let me check the stockroom for you, ma'am."
Her feet throbbed as she made her way through the Christmas chaos of the store. December twenty-third, and Pine Valley's shoppers were in full panic mode, grabbing last-minute gifts with the desperation of people who'd put off the inevitable too long. The sound system played "Silver Bells" for what had to be the thousandth time that week. City sidewalks, busy sidewalks, dressed in holiday style...
Sarah pushed through the stockroom door and leaned against it for just a moment, closing her eyes. The relative quiet back here was a mercy. She could hear the muffled chaos of the sales floor, but at least no one was asking her questions she had to answer with a smile she didn't feel. Six months. It had been six months since the phone call that shattered her world. Six months since she'd stood in that hospital corridor and felt her life end. Six months of somehow putting one foot in front of the other because Tommy and Emma needed her to, because the world didn't stop turning just because hers had stopped.
"You okay, honey?" Sarah's eyes flew open. Rita Valdez stood by the shelving units, a clipboard in her hand and concern written across her face. "Fine," Sarah said automatically. "Just looking for a navy cashmere scarf."
Rita's expression said she wasn't buying it, but she pointed to a shelf on the left. "Third bin down. But seriously, Sarah, you look dead on your feet. When's the last time you ate?" "I had coffee this morning." "Coffee isn't food." Rita set down her clipboard and crossed her arms. "You're working a double again, aren't you?" "I need the hours."
Sarah found the scarf and pulled it from the bin, avoiding Rita's eyes. "Christmas is expensive." "Sarah—" "I'm fine, Rita. Really." Sarah managed a more genuine smile for her friend. Rita had been kind since David died, had brought casseroles and offered to watch the kids and never once made Sarah feel like a charity case. But there was only so much kindness could do when the bills kept coming and the bank account kept emptying. "I should get this back to the customer."
Rita caught her arm gently. "The church is doing a Christmas dinner. Free, for anyone who wants to come. You and the kids should—" "We're fine," Sarah said, more sharply than she intended. She softened her tone. "Thank you. But we're okay." She escaped back to the sales floor before Rita could push further. The elderly woman was delighted with the navy scarf. Sarah rang it up, wrapped it in tissue paper, and sent her on her way with wishes for a Merry Christmas that tasted like ashes in her mouth.
The rest of the shift blurred together. Customers and questions and the endless loop of Christmas music. Her manager, Mr. Peterson, asked if she could work Christmas Eve. Sarah said yes before he'd even finished the question. Time and a half, and she needed every penny. At ten o'clock, the store finally closed. Sarah helped Rita straighten the wreckage of the scarf display while the other clerks counted registers and vacuumed.
"You coming to the employee party tomorrow?" Rita asked. "Peterson's actually springing for decent food this year."
"Can't. I have the kids." Sarah refolded a scarf that someone had left in a crumpled heap. "David's mom was going to watch them, but she's got the flu." "Bring them. Peterson said kids are welcome." Sarah shook her head. The thought of dragging Tommy and Emma to a work party, of making small talk while keeping them entertained, of answering the pitying questions about how she was holding up—it was too much. Everything was too much lately. "Maybe next year," she said.
Rita looked like she wanted to argue, but Mr. Peterson called for her help with something in the back, and Sarah was saved. She clocked out at 10:47, pulled on her coat—David's old work jacket, really, because it was warmer than hers and she didn't care that it hung too big on her frame—and stepped out into the December night.
The cold hit her like a physical force. Pine Valley winters were brutal, but this December had been especially harsh. The temperature had been below zero for three days straight, and the forecast promised more of the same. Sarah's breath formed clouds in the air as she hurried across the parking lot to her car. The Honda Civic was twelve years old and showed every one of them. David had kept it running through sheer determination and YouTube tutorials. Now, Sarah held her breath every time she turned the key, praying it would start. Tonight, it did. The engine coughed to life, and Sarah sent up a silent thank you to whoever might be listening. She let it warm up for a minute—the heater would take forever to kick in, but at least the engine was running—and pulled out onto Main Street.
Pine Valley looked like a Christmas card at night. The vintage lampposts were wrapped in garland and white lights. Shop windows glowed with holiday displays. The big community Christmas tree stood in front of the courthouse, covered in ornaments made by elementary school kids. Tommy's construction paper snowflake was up there somewhere, and Emma's glitter-covered star. It should have been beautiful. It should have filled Sarah with the warmth of the season, with gratitude for her community and hope for the future. Instead, it just made her tired.
She drove through the quiet streets to The Pines apartment complex on the east side of town. The two-story buildings looked shabby compared to downtown's festive cheer. A few residents had put up lights or wreaths, but most units were dark. People here were too busy surviving to worry much about decorating. Sarah parked in her assigned spot and climbed the exterior stairs to the second floor, her legs protesting every step. The door to 2B stuck a little—it always did in winter—and she had to put her shoulder into it.
The apartment was dark and cold. Too cold. Sarah's heart sank as she flipped on the light and saw her breath mist in the air. The heater had given up again. She'd called the management office twice last week, and they'd finally sent someone out who'd gotten it running, but clearly that fix hadn't lasted. She turned the thermostat up anyway, hoping for a miracle, and heard nothing but silence from the vents.
Perfect. Just perfect.
The babysitter, a teenager from down the hall named Melissa, was asleep on the couch under a blanket. She stirred when Sarah came in.
"Oh, hey, Mrs. Mitchell." Melissa sat up, rubbing her eyes. "Sorry, I didn't mean to fall asleep."
"It's fine. How were they?"
"Good. Emma wanted three bedtime stories, and Tommy asked about his dad." Melissa's young face creased with sympathy. "I told him his dad was watching over him from heaven. I hope that was okay?"
Sarah's throat tightened. "That was perfect. Thank you, Melissa."
She paid the girl fifteen dollars—more than she could afford, but Melissa was reliable and the kids liked her—and locked the door behind her. Then she stood in the cold, dark living room of her apartment and tried not to cry.
The living room was small and sparsely furnished. A couch David had bought at a yard sale before they were married. A coffee table with one wobbly leg. A TV that still worked but was old enough that Tommy asked why it was "so fat." No Christmas tree—she'd told the kids they'd get one this weekend, but she knew they wouldn't. She couldn't afford a tree and presents, and presents mattered more.
Except she couldn't really afford presents either.
Sarah dropped her purse on the coffee table and sank onto the couch. Her feet screamed with relief. She pulled off her shoes and rubbed her aching arches, then reached for her purse and pulled out her wallet.
One twenty-dollar bill. Three singles. Sixty-seven cents in change.
Her next paycheck wouldn't come until after Christmas. She had maybe forty dollars in her checking account. Rent was due in a week—she'd already asked for an extension once this month. The electric bill was overdue. The car needed an oil change she couldn't afford. And Christmas was in two days.
Sarah spread the money on the coffee table and stared at it like it might multiply if she looked hard enough.
Twenty-three dollars and sixty-seven cents.
She'd already bought small gifts for the kids—a used truck for Tommy from the thrift store, a baby doll for Emma that she'd found on clearance. They were wrapped and hidden in her closet. But she'd promised them a special Christmas breakfast, and there was no food in the house. She'd been planning to shop tomorrow, but looking at the money on the table, she realized she'd have to choose.
Food or presents.
Presents or keeping the lights on.
The numbers swam in her head, a terrible math problem with no right answer. David had handled the finances. He'd been good with money, careful and planning. Sarah had trusted him to take care of it, and he had, right up until he couldn't anymore.
The life insurance policy had barely covered the funeral costs. There'd been no savings—they'd been living paycheck to paycheck even when there were two paychecks. David's job had been union, but the death benefit had gone to paying off the credit cards they'd maxed out during the lean winter months when construction work dried up.
Sarah had applied for assistance. Food stamps, Medicaid for the kids, help with utilities. The paperwork was still processing. In the meantime, she was on her own.
She picked up the twenty-dollar bill and held it up to the light like it might reveal some hidden value she'd missed.
A sound from the hallway made her look up. Tommy stood in the doorway to the bedroom he shared with Emma, his too-small pajamas showing his skinny ankles, his dark hair sticking up in all directions.
Sarah quickly wiped her eyes—when had she started crying?—and smiled. "Hey, buddy. What are you doing up?"
"I heard you come home." Tommy padded into the living room on bare feet. "It's cold, Mama."
"I know, sweetheart. The heater's acting up again. Come here."
Tommy climbed onto the couch and burrowed into her side. He was so small, so thin. When had he gotten so thin? Sarah wrapped her arms around him and pulled David's jacket over both of them.
"Is it gonna be fixed for Christmas?" Tommy asked.
"I’ll have to call the superintendent," Sarah said, but there was no telling how long it would be before they got it fixed.
Tommy was quiet for a moment, his head resting against her shoulder. Then: "Mama? Is Santa real?"
Sarah's heart cracked a little more. "Why do you ask?"
"Because Jacob said Santa isn't real. He said it's just parents who buy the presents." Tommy tilted his head to look up at her, his hazel eyes—so like her own—serious and searching. "And I know we don't have a lot of money since Daddy went to heaven. So I was thinking maybe Santa isn't real, and you're worried about buying presents."
Six years old. He was six years old and trying to make sense of a world that had taken his father and left his mother struggling. Six years old and already learning that life wasn't fair, that bad things happened to good people, that sometimes there wasn't enough.
Sarah pulled him closer. "Santa's real, Tommy."
"But—"
"Santa's real," she repeated, more firmly. "And he's going to come, okay? You don't need to worry about that. That's my job, the worrying. Your job is to be six and believe in magic."
Tommy relaxed against her. "Okay, Mama."
They sat together in the cold, dark apartment, and Sarah stared at the twenty-three dollars on the coffee table and wondered how she was going to make magic happen.
After a few minutes, Tommy's breathing evened out. He'd fallen asleep against her shoulder, the way he used to when he was smaller, before he'd decided he was too big for cuddles. Sarah held him and let herself have this moment—this one moment where she wasn't counting dollars or calculating impossible equations, where she was just a mother holding her son.
But the moment couldn't last forever.
Gently, she carried Tommy back to the bedroom. Emma was asleep in her twin bed, curled up with the stuffed rabbit that had been her favorite since she was two. Sarah tucked Tommy into his bed, pulled the blankets up to his chin, and kissed his forehead.
"I love you," she whispered. "Both of you. So much."
Back in the living room, she gathered up the money and put it back in her wallet. She punched in the superintendent’s number. When he answered, he apologized and said he’d called the heating company and they promised service techs would be there soon. She sighed and sat at the small kitchen table and pulled out the stack of bills she'd been avoiding.
Electric: $147, past due.
Rent: $650, due in one week.
Car insurance: $89, due in three days.
The numbers blurred together. Even with her next paycheck, even working every hour Mr. Peterson would give her, the math didn't work. She was drowning, and there was no life preserver in sight.
Sarah put her head down on the table and let herself cry, really cry, for the first time in weeks. She cried for David, for the life they'd planned that would never happen. She cried for Tommy trying to be brave and Emma asking when Daddy was coming home. She cried for the heating that kept going out and the Christmas she couldn't afford and the future that looked like nothing but struggle and loss.
She cried until there were no tears left, until she was empty and exhausted and so tired she could barely lift her head.
Then she wiped her face, took a shaky breath, and did what she'd been doing for six months: she kept going.
Because that's what mothers did. They kept going.
Sarah pulled out her phone and searched for "Toys for Tots Pine Valley." The program was run through the fire department. She'd seen the collection boxes around town, had even donated a toy or two in better years. She'd never imagined she'd be on the receiving end.
The website had an application form. Sarah stared at it for a long moment, her finger hovering over the link. Asking for help felt like admitting defeat. It felt like failing David, failing her kids, failing herself.
But Tommy's question echoed in her mind: Is Santa real?
She clicked the link.
The form asked for basic information: name, address, number of children, ages. There was a section for explaining need, but Sarah left it blank. What was she supposed to say? My husband died and I can't afford Christmas? They'd figure it out from the address, from the single income, from the desperation that probably bled through even a simple form.
She hit submit before she could change her mind.
The confirmation page said someone would contact her within 48 hours to arrange delivery. Sarah closed her phone and sat in the cold, quiet apartment, feeling the weight of what she'd just done.
She'd asked for help.
She'd admitted she couldn't do it alone.
It should have felt like relief. Instead, it felt like one more loss in a year full of them—the loss of her pride, her independence, her ability to provide for her children the way David would have wanted.
But Tommy and Emma would have presents under a tree they didn't have, and maybe that was enough. Maybe that had to be enough.
Sarah stood and went to check on the kids one more time. They were both sleeping peacefully, unaware of their mother's struggles, still young enough to believe in Santa and magic and happy endings.
She would keep that belief alive as long as she could. Even if it meant swallowing her pride. Even if it meant accepting charity. Even if it meant admitting that she was barely holding on.
For them, she would do anything.
Even ask for help.
Sarah pulled their bedroom door closed and went to her own room—the room she used to share with David, where his side of the bed was still empty, where his clothes still hung in the closet because she couldn't bear to give them away.
She climbed into bed fully clothed, pulling every blanket she owned over her body against the cold. Hopefully, the heat would be back on before morning. Tomorrow she'd make the money stretch somehow. Tomorrow she'd be strong again.
But tonight, she was just tired.
Sarah closed her eyes and tried not to think about the fact that somewhere in Pine Valley, in a warm house with a working furnace, there were people who didn't have to choose between food and presents, who didn't lie awake at night doing impossible math, who didn't know what it felt like to count your last twenty dollars and wonder if it would be enough.
Tried not to think about how far she'd fallen, how much she'd lost, how alone she was.
Tried not to think at all.
Outside, the temperature dropped to five below zero. The wind picked up, rattling the windows of The Pines apartment complex. And in unit 2B, Sarah Mitchell finally fell into an exhausted sleep, dreaming of better days that felt like someone else's life.