When Carolina’s 8-year-old daughter Emma hung a Christmas stocking labeled “LESLEY” in glittery letters, she was puzzled.
She didn’t know any Lesley. No relatives, friends, or Emma’s classmates had that name.
When she dug deeper, the truth shattered her, leaving her frozen and in tears.
Our neighborhood was straight out of a storybook.
Maple Grove Lane wound its way through a picturesque collection of homes, each with its own unique charm.
Lush lawns and cheerful holiday decorations created a sense of warmth and community.
My husband Mark worked as an IT manager for a local tech company, predictable as clockwork.
I juggled a demanding career, managing marketing campaigns while handling conference calls and school pickups with the precision of a professional circus performer.
And then there is Emma — our eight-year-old tornado of creativity and boundless energy.
Our house sat at the end of the street, a soft blue building with white trimming that Mark had meticulously maintained.
Every Saturday, he’d be out front, washing the SUV or trimming the hedges, while Emma “helped” by spreading more leaves than she actually collected.
Christmas was our family’s favorite time. And we had our own traditions. Emma would help me bake sugar cookies with ridiculous amounts of sprinkles.
Mark would untangle miles of Christmas lights, cursing under his breath but always with a smile. We were wonderfully, boringly normal.
Until that fateful day when everything changed.
I was home doing some chores as Emma was busy decorating the Christmas tree.
It started with a stocking. Not just any stocking, but a bright red one with glittery letters spelling out a name I’d never heard before: LESLEY.
Lesley?
Who’s Lesley? I racked my brains, but couldn’t place the name. No relatives, friends, or Emma’s classmates called Lesley.
It was odd, so I decided to dig a little deeper.
“Sweetie,” I called, my fingers tracing the unfamiliar fabric, “who exactly is Lesley?”
My daughter looked up from her craft table, surrounded by construction paper, glitter, and what appeared to be the remnants of three different art projects. Her eyes sparkled with a secret she was eager to share.
“She’s Dad’s special friend,” Emma proclaimed, her legs swinging beneath her chair. “The one who visits when you’re working.”
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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