I’m Suzana, a single mom to two incredible little boys, Ethan and Jake. For us, Christmas isn’t about gadgets or fancy vacations. It’s about one magical thing: our Christmas tree. I save all year just so I can buy the most beautiful tree we can afford—and this year, we did it.
After months of saving every penny, we finally brought home a stunning seven-foot Christmas tree. It sparkled with lights, handmade ornaments, and so much love, it practically glowed.
“Mom! Mom! Look what I made!” Ethan, my 8-year-old, came bursting through the door like a rocket, his backpack swinging and cheeks flushed from excitement. In his hand was a paper snowflake with a picture of us in the middle—one from our summer picnic.
“Oh wow, that’s amazing!” I knelt down to admire it. “Want to hang it on the special branch?”
“Can I put it by my rocket ship?” asked Jake, who’s six and full of energy. He held up his creation: a toilet paper roll rocket, painted silver and complete with little cardboard wings.
“How about right between your rocket and my angel?” I smiled and reached for the step ladder.
“Best spot ever!” Ethan grinned as he hung his snowflake carefully. “This tree’s like our giant memory book, huh, Mom?”
“It really is,” I said, wrapping my arm around him. “Every ornament tells a part of our story.”
Jake twirled around the room. “Our tree’s the best on the block! Even better than the one at the mall!”
Ethan looked up thoughtfully. “We should add more lights on the top. Then Santa can see it all the way from the North Pole!”
“You got it, buddy,” I said. “Let’s make this the brightest tree in town.”
We added more lights, more giggles, more love. The room felt magical.
But that magic didn’t last.
Exactly 21 hours and 16 minutes later—at 5:07 p.m. on Christmas Eve—our joy got smashed.
We were singing along to “Jingle Bell Rock” when someone knocked on the door. My heart dropped. I didn’t need to guess who it was.
Mr. Bryant, our landlord, stood there. He looked as grumpy as ever, wearing a fancy scarf that probably cost more than our month’s groceries. In one hand he held a $10 coffee, and in the other, his flashy phone.
“Suzana,” he barked without looking up, “About the rent.”
I stood tall, trying not to show how nervous I was. “It’s not due for another week, Mr. Bryant. Same as always.”
He finally looked up—and that’s when he saw it. Our beautiful tree in the yard.
“What is that thing doing in your yard?”
“Our Christmas tree?” I said, confused. “We just set it up.”
“It needs to go. Fire hazard,” he said coldly.
“Fire hazard? It’s outside! We checked the lights and—”
“I’m sending a truck in an hour,” he said. Then, without emotion, added, “Happy holidays. Keep the noise down.”
I stood there frozen. Inside, the boys were laughing, decorating sugar cookies, completely unaware of what was about to happen.
Then the truck came.
“Mom! You said we could keep it until New Year’s!” Ethan cried as men started ripping the lights off our tree.
“Why is the mean man taking our tree?” Jake sobbed, clutching my leg. “Were we bad? I’ll be good! Please tell him to stop!”
I pulled them close, holding back my own tears. “You weren’t bad. Some grown-ups just… make bad choices.”
“But all our ornaments!” Ethan shouted. “My snowflake! Jake’s rocket ship! They’re taking everything!”
“Our tree was the prettiest on the block…” Jake whispered. “It’s not Christmas without a tree.”
I watched helplessly as the truck drove off, our memories, our love, our Christmas—gone.
That night, after the boys finally fell asleep, I sat in the empty living room, staring at the bare spot in our yard. All I could hear were their quiet sniffles through the walls.
“I hate Mr. Bryant,” Ethan said softly from his bed. “He stole our Christmas.”
“I hate him too,” Jake whispered. “Now Santa won’t find us. I hope the Cookie Monster eats him.”
The next morning, I dropped them off at Grandma’s for our usual Christmas breakfast. I needed air. Time to think. On my drive, I passed Mr. Bryant’s house… and slammed on the brakes.
There it was. Our tree. Standing proudly in his yard. Every ornament—Ethan’s snowflake, Jake’s rocket, even our crooked star—was still on it.
But now, it had a big, shiny gold star on top and a giant sign that read:
“Merry Christmas from the Bryants.”
My hands shook as I called my best friend, Jessie.
“He didn’t just take our tree,” I fumed. “He stole our memories. He’s pretending they’re his!”
“That greedy little troll!” Jessie snapped. “Last time I heard you this mad, you stuffed Jonathan’s locker with glitter in fifth grade!”
“At least Jonathan only stole my lunch money,” I said. “Mr. Bryant stole our Christmas.”
“Remember what we did to Jonathan?”
I grinned. “He was pulling glitter out of his hair for weeks.”
“So,” Jessie said slowly, “what’s the plan?”
“Oh, I’ve got one. You in?”
“Girl, I’ve been waiting for a reason to wear my crime leggings. What time?”
At midnight, we slipped into black hoodies and tiptoed across Mr. Bryant’s lawn like two ninja moms on a mission. We brought gloves, duct tape, and a can of glitter spray.
“These gloves make me feel like a cat burglar,” Jessie whispered. “Though mine have unicorns on them.”
“We’re not burglars,” I whispered back. “We’re Santa’s revenge squad.”
We carefully took back every ornament—Ethan’s snowflake, Jake’s rocket, even the pipe cleaner candy cane.
Then we wrapped silver duct tape around the tree and spelled out, in big bold letters:
“PROPERTY OF SUZANA, ETHAN & JAKE!”
Jessie grinned. “Red glitter or silver?”
“Both,” I said. “It is Christmas.”
The next morning, I parked down the street with coffee and waited.
At exactly 8:15 a.m., Mr. Bryant opened his door… and let out a string of words that would make Santa put him on the ultra naughty list.
“Everything okay, Mr. Bryant?” called Mrs. Adams from next door, walking her poodle.
“Someone vandalized my tree!” he shouted.
“Is that little Jake’s rocket ship? And Ethan’s snowflake?” she asked, squinting.
“What?! No! This is my tree!”
“Then why does it say ‘Property of Suzana, Ethan & Jake’ in glitter?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Wait… did you steal their tree?”
“I… I moved it! It was a fire hazard!”
“Well,” she said sharply, “stealing a single mother’s Christmas tree on Christmas Eve? What would your mother say?”
By noon, photos of Mr. Bryant’s glitter-covered yard were everywhere online. Headlines read:
“The Grinch Gets Glittered”
and
“Steal Christmas, Get Karma.”
That evening, he showed up at our door with the tree. Glitter sparkled on his shoes.
“Here’s your tree,” he mumbled, not looking at me.
“Thank you, Mr. Bryant. The boys will be thrilled,” I said sweetly.
He started to walk off, then stopped. “The rent’s still due on the first.”
“Of course,” I smiled. “Oh, and Mr. Bryant? Glitter sticks around until spring.”
Later that night, there was another knock. Mrs. Adams stood there, holding a beautiful new Christmas tree, cookies, and a box of shiny new ornaments.
“This one’s for inside the house,” she said with a hug. “No child should cry on Christmas. And he should know better. His mom raised him alone too.”
With the neighbors’ help, we put up the new tree beside the old one. As Ethan and Jake laughed and hung up their decorations, the house filled with warmth again.
“Mom!” Jake said, placing his rocket carefully. “Now we have two awesome trees!”
“This is the best Christmas ever!” Ethan added, his eyes shining.
And just like that, our home was full of magic again. As for Mr. Bryant? He’s been quiet ever since.
Because sometimes, the best gift of all… is karma.
