Love Always Finds Its Way Home

There was a stretch of my life when Tim worked out of town all week long and only came home on weekends. I wasn’t technically a single mom, but Monday through Friday, when I was the only adult in the house, the only one doing the cooking, cleaning, correcting, driving, and refereeing, I sure felt like one.

And nothing highlighted that feeling quite like Christmas.

December had a way of stretching me thin as tinsel.
The kids had school programs.
I had deadlines.
The stores were packed with people acting like the last toy on earth was hidden behind the frozen turkeys.
And somewhere along the way, every toy we owned became a weapon of mass destruction in the back seat.

The worst offenders?

G.I. Joe figures. McDonald’s Happy Meal toys. Ninja Turtles. Barbie dolls.
And one unforgettable day…the Perfection game, a box of tiny plastic chaos waiting to detonate like a yellow confetti bomb.

I always gave fair warning.

“Stop fighting.”
“Work it out, you two.”
“If you can’t share it, NOBODY gets it!”

But once their voices hit that screechy pitch that makes your eye twitch and your soul pack its bags… something inside me snapped.

Not a gentle, composed snap. A mom-who-has-had-enough snap.

And that’s when the routine began.

I kept my eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, but I swung my right arm behind the seat, every muscle tight, palm open, mom-instinct fully activated, and commanded:

“Give. It. To. Me. NOW.”

Both kids froze.
The guilty one would try to hide the toy behind their back like I suddenly lost 20/20 vision.
The other one pointed like a tiny informant.

Then, reluctantly, whichever child had the contested toy placed it in my open hand… knowing exactly what was coming next.

I rolled down the window. Cold December air whipped into the car.

And with the stealth and commitment of a 90s mom hanging on by a thread, I threw that toy straight out onto the highway.

Right there. At full speed. Like a peppermint-scented vigilante enforcing peace on earth.

I watched it bounce into the grass in my rearview mirror, flipping, cartwheeling, surrendering to the wind, while also catching the look in their eyes:

Wide. Shocked. Silent. Half horrified… and half amazed that I actually did it.

Instant silence filled the car. Sacred silence. The kind of silence where even the air molecules hold their breath.

And then the guilt hit me like a punch.

Why is everything so hard? Why am I always the one carrying the load? Why can’t someone help me, just once?

Because the truth was, I was overwhelmed.

Money was tight. Time was tighter. And as Christmas Eve approached, the empty space under the tree mocked me.

One small gift each. And maybe an orange in their stocking, just like my childhood.

That familiar ache settled in my chest.

When Tim finally made it home Christmas Eve, I unraveled. I told him everything, the stress, the loneliness, the exhaustion, the trail of discarded toys dotting the highway from Seguin to the next town.

He tried to reassure me. “They’re young, babe. They won’t remember. Christmas will still be Christmas.”

But I remembered mine. Every disappointment. Every empty corner. Every time I pretended something small was enough.

That night, after tucking the kids in and turning off the tree lights, I whispered a tired little prayer, the same one I used to whisper as a child:

Lord… please let there be some magic tomorrow. Just a little.

And then…Christmas morning arrived.

The kids raced toward the tree, hair wild, pajamas crooked, hearts bursting with excitement. They tore open their gifts, paper flying, squeals echoing through the room.

And suddenly:

“Momma! LOOK!”
“It’s my Ninja Turtle!”
“MY G.I. JOE!”
“Barbie’s hair grew back!”
“THE PERFECTION GAME!!!”

I froze.

There, under our tree, sat every single toy I had thrown out the window.

Perfect. Restored. Whole.

The Barbie with chopped-off hair now had long golden curls.
G.I. Joe’s missing leg had miraculously reappeared.
Every Perfection piece was accounted for, every tiny yellow shape I’d watched scatter across the highway like popcorn.

Tim hadn’t bought them. I hadn’t bought them. No one we knew had stepped in.

But there they were, wrapped with care, quietly waiting to be opened.

Maybe an angel gathered them. Maybe a stranger felt called to kindness.
Maybe Santa himself decided a worn-out mama needed a wink from the North Pole.

All I know is this:

Sometimes Christmas miracles don’t burst in with trumpets or bright stars.
Sometimes they slip in quietly, wrapped in paper under a modest tree in a tired mother’s living room.

A reminder that grace doesn’t just fix what’s broken.

It brings things home.

And love…real, stubborn, impossible love…always finds its way back home.