The Gift That Arrived Late

The Gift That Arrived Late

by Madi A. /2025

In the early 1970s, all I wanted from Santa was a Monopoly board game.

My little brother, by contrast, had a list that stretched on forever and was still a firm believer that Santa was a magical presence, one who slipped into homes on Christmas Eve and left behind wonder.

Every Christmas Eve for as long as I can remember, I heard the familiar sounds: wrapping paper rustling, scotch tape screeching as it was pulled from the roll and sliced by plastic teeth. Beneath it all were hushed whispers of my parents carefully organizing the Santa drop.

We were always awake at the crack of dawn. My little brother’s ADHD energy ignited the moment his eyes opened. Gifts were handed out, a few for my lil brother, a few for each of my parents, and some for me. One by one, I unwrapped mine with care, never tearing the paper: a watch, a housecoat, a few pieces of clothing. My eyes kept drifting toward the remaining boxes, hopeful that one of them would finally be my Monopoly game. When the last gift was opened, disappointment settled quietly inside me. I took my new things and went to my room.

Mom called us back, saying breakfast was ready and we needed to eat quickly and get dressed. At the table, Dad noticed my mood. I pushed around toast that was a little too dark for my liking, drowning it in maple syrup to mask the taste.  When he asked what was wrong, I finally said it aloud: all I had wanted was a Monopoly board game.  My little brother said without missing a beat.  “Only good kids get the gifts they want.”

I remember thinking how unfair that felt. His restless, impulsive behaviour hardly fit my definition of being good, while my quiet, peaceful nature surely should have earned me that one simple wish.

Christmas Mass was starting soon. We lived just across the parking lot from the church, and as long as we arrived a few minutes before the hour, our usual bench, mid-right, near the front, was always waiting for us.

When the final blessing was spoken, I hurried through the crowd of parishioners, exchanging Merry Christmas wishes before heading off to family gatherings.

On the walk home, I noticed my mother was nearly running ahead, saying she thought she’d forgotten to turn off a ring on the stove. With my head down, boots shuffling through the snow, I barely noticed that she was steps ahead of me.

As always, my little brother found ways to get into everything between the church doors and home. I often wondered how much mischief he could manage in just a few minutes. He never failed to draw my father’s attention.

When I stepped inside, my mom was already in the kitchen, tidying up. As I headed toward my room, something caught my eye beneath the tree, something that hadn’t been there before.

Mom called out, asking me to grab a cup she thought she’d left in the living room.

There it was. Unwrapped. No tag. No paper.  Just a Monopoly board game, sitting quietly under the tree.

“Santa must have forgotten to leave it last night,” my mom said.

I didn’t care who brought it there, how it arrived, or when it was placed. I only knew that I finally had the one thing I had asked for.

That was the moment I truly understood the meaning of Christmas. Santa’s magic wasn’t about sleighs or reindeer; it lived in the belief itself. Magic exists in the minds of those who choose to believe.

My parents were quick with an explanation for my brother: sometimes Santa delivers gifts to the wrong house, and this one must have been left at our door while we were at church.

And just like that, the magic remained intact.

The Gift that Arrived Late