My mom and dad always tried to make Christmas special for us. We

Host: The snow fell softly that night — the kind that hushed the city, covering everything in a tender layer of quiet. The old streetlamps glowed faintly beneath the white, their light spilling across the narrow street like melted gold. From one window — small, fogged, but warm — the sound of laughter flickered out into the cold.

Inside, the apartment was tiny but alive. The walls carried the smell of cinnamon, the faint crackle of an old record spinning in the corner, and the laughter of memory. Jack sat on a worn sofa, holding a mug of cocoa, staring at the little Christmas tree — half-leaning, half-glowing — decorated with mismatched ornaments and strings of popcorn. Jeeny sat on the floor beside the heater, wrapping a gift with newspaper and red yarn.

Outside, the world was frozen. Inside, time itself seemed to soften.

Jeeny: Smiling softly as she ties the yarn. “Johnny Mathis once said, ‘My mom and dad always tried to make Christmas special for us. We were poor, but it’s funny because we had no idea.’”

Jack: Chuckling quietly. “I like that. There’s truth in it — the kind that sneaks up on you.”

Jeeny: “Yeah. It’s not about money. It’s about magic. The kind parents build out of nothing.”

Jack: “Magic’s just another word for love disguised as effort.”

Jeeny: Grinning. “That’s the most cynical definition of love I’ve ever heard.”

Jack: Shrugs, sipping his cocoa. “Maybe. But you can’t deny it’s true. Think about it — when you’ve got nothing, effort is the only currency that matters.”

Host: The firelight flickered against their faces — warm on Jeeny’s smile, softer on Jack’s eyes. The small tree sparkled in the corner, its lights uneven but beautiful, casting dancing shadows against the walls.

Jeeny: “You ever have a Christmas like that? One where you didn’t know you were poor?”

Jack: Pauses, thinking. “Yeah. Every one of them.” He laughs quietly. “We didn’t have much, but my mother could make a candle feel like a miracle. She’d tell us Santa had a tough year, but he still found a way.”

Jeeny: “What’d you ask for?”

Jack: “A telescope. I wanted to see the stars, but I ended up getting a book about them instead. I didn’t realize until later she bought it from a thrift store.”

Jeeny: Softly. “And you loved it anyway.”

Jack: Nods. “I still have it.”

Host: The record player crackled faintly — an old tune playing, Mathis himself maybe, his voice like velvet and snow: “It’s not the things you do at Christmas time…”

Jeeny: “Funny, isn’t it? The way love hides itself in small things. Like popcorn garlands and reused wrapping paper.”

Jack: “Yeah. Love’s sneaky like that. It never announces itself. It just... fills the room until you realize you can’t breathe without it.”

Jeeny: Smiling softly. “So it’s magic after all.”

Jack: “Maybe. But not the kind with spells or miracles. It’s the kind that keeps the lights on even when the power’s gone out.”

Host: The heater rattled faintly, its hum blending with the rhythm of the snow outside. Jeeny leaned her head against the sofa, watching the lights blink on the tree — one bulb flickering, struggling, but refusing to give up.

Jeeny: “You know what I think makes childhood special?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “Ignorance. The good kind. The kind that lets you believe everything is enough.”

Jack: “Yeah.” His voice softened. “Back then, we measured joy by moments, not money.”

Host: A silence fell — soft, warm, familiar. The kind of silence that doesn’t demand to be filled. The kind that feels like being home.

Jack: “You ever think about how poor doesn’t mean broken? Some of the happiest people I’ve ever met had nothing to spare, but everything to give.”

Jeeny: “Maybe poverty reveals the truth — that happiness doesn’t come from what you have, but how deeply you notice what you’ve got.”

Jack: “And how long you can hold onto it before the world teaches you to want more.”

Host: The clock on the mantel ticked quietly, each second like a heartbeat wrapped in nostalgia. The smell of cocoa, pine, and candle wax filled the air — the scent of simpler years replayed through time.

Jeeny: “You know, my mom used to say that Christmas wasn’t about getting what you want. It was about remembering what you already have.”

Jack: Smiles. “She sounds like someone who could make a paper star look like gold.”

Jeeny: “She could. She used to hang them from the ceiling with string. The whole room looked like a galaxy made of tin foil and faith.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what poor parents really do — they give their kids constellations when they can’t afford fireworks.”

Host: Jeeny laughed, and the sound was like warmth breaking through winter — a reminder that joy, real joy, is never extravagant, only honest.

Jack: Quietly, after a pause. “You know, Mathis was right. We didn’t know we were poor. Because love was the only wealth that counted, and it was overflowing.”

Jeeny: Nods, her eyes glistening slightly. “That’s the kind of wealth that doesn’t vanish — not when the lights go out, not when the years pass.”

Host: The snow outside thickened, the world disappearing into white. Inside, the little apartment glowed brighter — as if refusing to acknowledge the cold beyond its walls.

Jeeny: Whispering. “Every year, I try to make Christmas special for myself — a candle, a song, a little sweetness. It’s my way of saying thank you to the people who made magic from nothing.”

Jack: Gently. “Maybe that’s what we’re supposed to do when we grow up — not chase the magic, but carry it.”

Jeeny: “Carry it where?”

Jack: “Everywhere.”

Host: The record ended with a soft crackle. The room fell still again. Jack leaned back, eyes half-closed, a quiet smile lingering like an aftertaste. Jeeny took a small bite of the chocolate from the tart she’d wrapped, the sweetness grounding her in the moment.

The tree lights blinked once more, their colors soft and imperfect — red, green, gold, hope.

And in that little room, two grown hearts remembered what children once knew without trying:

That love, disguised as effort,
can turn scarcity into abundance,
and that the richest moments in life
are the ones lit by imagination, not money.

Outside, the snow kept falling,
each flake a tiny reminder that beauty,
like love,
is often born quietly in the smallest places.