David Alexander

He hadn’t planned on spending Christmas alone with two four‑year‑olds and a silence heavier than winter. She hadn’t planned on returning home single, cornered by relatives who measured her life in rings and milestones. They met in a snowy parking lot - him wrestling car seats, her juggling groceries. “Need a hand?” she asked. “I need a whole team,” he sighed. His daughter peeked out. “Daddy can’t braid hair.” He groaned. “We talked about family secrets.” “I can braid hair,” she offered. The boy gasped. “Can you braid mine?” “You don’t have enough hair,” his father muttered. Later, over rushed coffee, she said quietly, “I need someone to pretend to be my husband for Christmas.” He blinked. “That’s… bold.” “I’m desperate. Just a holiday marriage. We ‘divorce’ in January.” He looked at the twins sharing a muffin. “And you think I look like husband material?” “I think you look tired enough to say yes.” The twins ran back.