Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 93425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
A photo fell out of the letter onto the floor. When I picked it up, what met my eyes was a beautiful little girl with golden hair and a bright smile that melted my heart. It was a wallet-size school photo. Wow. This is her. It felt surreal to be looking at the actual Birdie. She was so pretty, with kind eyes and, from everything I knew, a beautiful soul to match. I put the photo aside and read the letter.
Dear Santa,
Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God! You are real. You’re really real. I got the olives and socks today. The holes fit on my fingers! Not the holes in the socks. The holes in the olives. The socks didn’t have holes. My daddy’s socks don’t have holes anymore. They were so nice and soft. You should’ve seen him when he found the socks in his drawer! He still doesn’t know how they got there. He said today must have been his lucky day because he found them. And I laughed. It was so funny! And then he took me to the ice-cream place next to his restaurant to celebrate our lucky day. I couldn’t tell him that I was too full because I just ate a can of olives.
Did I tell you my dad owns a fancy restaurant? People wear high heels to go eat there. I prefer to eat in my feetsy pajamas. But Dad makes me wear a dress on date night. That’s on the first Tuesday of every month. Mom used to go with him. But now I do. It’s my favorite day of the month. Not because I like to look all fancy and eat at Dad’s restaurant but because after dinner, Dad comes home with me. He usually works really late.
Oh! And I also didn’t tell him I wrote to you. He would’ve told me it was too early to write to Santa and that I shouldn’t be greedy.
Last night, I told my dad that I really want someone else to braid my hair besides him. He doesn’t know how to do it right. Then I caught him watching a YouTube video on how to braid. I told him I want the kind of braid that goes across the top of my head. The fancy one. He was watching someone make that kind of braid. If he tries to braid my hair like that, then I’m going to feel bad and let him do it. And I’ll look silly.
Anyway, I just wanted to thank you for showing me that you’re real.
Birdie Maxwell
P.S. I am sending you one of my school photos. They gave me a lot, and I have no one to give them to besides Dad and my grandmas.
P.P.S. I added something to my Christmas list. Did you ever hear of 23andMe? In school we made these big trees that showed all our parents and grandparents on all different branches. Mrs. Parker told us all about how you can spit in a tube and find people related to you going back hundreds of years. I want to add branches to my tree, enough to cover an entire wall in my bedroom! My tree was one of the skinniest in school because I don’t have any sisters or brothers.
P.P.P.S. That wasn’t me dropping a hint. I don’t want you to buy it for me. My aunt always buys me dresses that I don’t like, so I’m saving that for her to get me this year!
I let out a long breath and kept staring at the photo. Birdie really could have been me at her age. We had so much in common, from our blonde hair to . . . well, our dead moms.
And her note about the braids totally brought back memories of my own dad trying in vain to do my hair way back when. He’d get so frustrated and give up. Then I’d end up going to school looking like Pippi Longstocking.
Yup. Her dad reminded me of mine. We were both lucky to have men like that in our lives. I felt for Mr. Maxwell, whoever he was—someone doing the best he could to make his daughter’s life as normal as possible.
When I returned to my desk with the mail, I attempted to work on my article for a bit before my mind began to wander. I started to think about Birdie again and suddenly switched my screen over to Google and typed in: Birdie Maxwell.
No.
Delete.
A few seconds later, temptation once again won out. I typed: Birdie Maxwell New York, New York.
I deleted it again.
What am I doing?
Just leave well enough alone.
Why do you need to know more about this poor girl and her father?
My heart raced as I typed again: Birdie Maxwell New York, New York.
Not sure what I was expecting, but the very first result was something I wasn’t prepared for.