I’m Suzana, a single mom of two amazing little boys, Ethan and Jake. Christmas is more than just a holiday for us — it’s our whole world. While other families save up for vacations, I save all year for one special thing: our perfect Christmas tree.
This year, after months of careful saving, we finally had it. A seven-foot masterpiece of lights, handmade ornaments, and memories. It was everything I dreamed of.
“Mom! Mom! Look what I made in art class!” Ethan, my 8-year-old, burst through the door with his backpack flying, holding a paper snowflake. In the center, he had glued a photo of the three of us from last summer’s picnic.
“That’s gorgeous, honey!” I bent down to examine it. “Want to hang it on the special branch?”
“Can I put it next to my rocket ship?” Jake, my 6-year-old, bounced over, holding a toilet paper roll he had painted silver, complete with cardboard fins.
“How about right between your rocket and my angel?” I suggested, climbing the step ladder.
“Best spot ever!” Ethan carefully placed his snowflake. “This tree is like a giant memory book, isn’t it, Mom?”
“Sure is, baby. Every ornament tells our story.”
“And it’s the prettiest tree on the whole street!” Jake declared, spinning around the tree’s base. “Even prettier than the one at the mall!”
“Can we add more lights to the top?” Ethan asked, eyes wide. “It needs to shine so Santa can see it from the North Pole!”
“Of course we can, honey,” I smiled, “Let’s make it the brightest tree in town.”
Everything was perfect, and for 21 hours and 16 minutes, it stayed that way. Then came Christmas Eve. At exactly 5:07 p.m., just as we were listening to “Jingle Bell Rock,” there was a sharp knock at the door.
I opened it to find Mr. Bryant, our landlord, standing there, designer coffee in hand, his latest-model phone glued to his ear. His cashmere scarf probably cost more than my grocery budget for a month.
“Suzana,” he said, barely looking up. “About the rent.”
I straightened up, my heart skipping a beat. “It’s not due for another week, Mr. Bryant. Same as always. There’s still time, right?”
“I’m just making sure you’re… AWARE!” His eyes flickered to our tree, then back to me, his expression darkening. “What exactly is THAT THING doing in your yard?”
“Our Christmas tree?” I said, confused. “We put it up last night. It’s part of our holiday tradition.”
“It needs to go,” he said coldly, sipping his coffee like he was discussing something trivial. “Fire hazard.”
“Fire hazard? Mr. Bryant, it’s outside! We’ve checked all the lights. Everything is safe.”
“I’m sending a truck in an hour.” He turned to leave, then paused. “Oh, and happy holidays. Try to keep the noise down with all the… festivities.”
I stood frozen in the doorway, my mind racing. Inside, my boys were decorating sugar cookies, unaware of the storm that was about to hit.
Then, the truck arrived.
“But Mom, you promised we could keep the tree until New Year’s!” Ethan’s voice cracked, his face full of panic as the workers began taking down our tree. “Tell them to stop!”
Jake wrapped himself around my leg, tears streaking his flour-dusted cheeks. “Why is the mean man taking our Christmas tree, Mommy? Please tell him to stop. Were we bad? I promise to be good! Please, Mom, please!”
I pulled them close, choking back my own tears. “No, baby, you weren’t bad at all. Sometimes grown-ups make decisions that don’t make sense.”
“But all our ornaments!” Ethan’s small fists clenched. “My snowflake! Jake’s rocket! Why are they taking everything?”
“Our tree was the prettiest tree on the block!” Jake sobbed, his little body shaking. “It’s not Christmas without a tree!” We stood there, helpless, as they loaded our beautiful tree onto the truck. My heart shattered as I watched my kids’ quiet sobs. The truck pulled away, taking our Christmas joy with it.
That night, after tucking my heartbroken boys into bed, I sat in the empty living room, staring at the bare patch of dead grass where our tree had stood. The silence in the house felt suffocating, broken only by muffled sniffles from the boys’ room.
“I hate Mr. Bryant,” Ethan whispered from the hallway, his voice thick with sorrow. “He stole our Christmas.”
“Me too,” Jake added softly, his tiny voice filled with disbelief. “Santa won’t even know where to find us now. It’s all his fault. He’s a bad man. I wish the cookie monster would take him.”
The next morning, I dropped the boys off at their grandma’s house for our traditional Christmas breakfast. On the drive back, still shaken, I took the long way home to clear my head. But when I passed Mr. Bryant’s house at the end of the street, I nearly drove off the road.
There it was. Our tree. Our beloved tree. Standing proudly in his front yard, decorated with all our ornaments, even the crooked star Ethan had insisted on placing himself. But now, there was an enormous golden star on top, and a sign: “MERRY CHRISTMAS FROM THE BRYANTS!”
My blood boiled. I immediately called my best friend Jessie.
“He didn’t just steal our tree, Jess,” I said, my voice shaking. “He stole my kids’ Christmas! Ethan’s snowflake, Jake’s rocket… they’re all there, on display like they belong to him!”
“That entitled jerk!” Jessie hissed. “Girl, I haven’t heard you this upset since Jonathan stole your lunch money in fifth grade.”
“At least Jonathan only took my money. This is different. Mr. Bryant… he STOLE our Christmas.”
“And what did we do to Jonathan?”
“We filled his locker with shaving cream and glitter.” I grinned at the memory. “It took him weeks to clean it all out.”
“Exactly. So what’s the plan? Because I can hear it in your voice. You’ve got a plan, right?”
“Maybe… How do you feel about a little midnight adventure?”
“Girl, I’ve been waiting all year to wear my black yoga pants for a good cause. What time should I come over?”
At midnight, Jessie and I, dressed in black hoodies and armed with supplies, snuck across Mr. Bryant’s perfectly manicured lawn.
“These gloves make me feel like a cat burglar,” Jessie whispered, carefully removing each ornament. “Though I doubt most burglars wear unicorn-print gloves.”
“More like Santa’s revenge squad!” I replied, bagging up my boys’ decorations, my heart heavy as I recognized each one. “Look, he even kept the candy cane Jake made from pipe cleaners.”
“What a jerk,” Jessie muttered, her frown deepening. “Hey, what’s that noise?”
We froze as a car passed, then burst into nervous laughter when it continued down the street.
“Remind me why we’re not just taking the tree and some of your boys’ ornaments?” Jessie asked, wrestling with a stubborn ornament.
“Because then we’d be no better than him,” I said. “We’re going to do something much better.”
We replaced Mr. Bryant’s tacky additions with something far more special. Silver duct tape letters formed the message: “PROPERTY OF SUZANA, ETHAN & JAKE!”
“Wait!” Jessie pulled out a can of glitter spray. “Let’s make it festive. Red or silver?”
“Both. It’s Christmas after all.”
The next morning, I parked down the street with two cups of coffee, watching Mr. Bryant’s house. At 8:15 a.m., his door flew open.
The string of curses that followed could have made a sailor blush.
“Everything okay, Mr. Bryant?” Mrs. Adams, his neighbor, asked while walking her poodle. She’d lived there for 30 years and didn’t take nonsense from anyone.
“Someone vandalized my tree!” Mr. Bryant gestured wildly at the glittering letters.
Mrs. Adams adjusted her glasses, peering at the tree. “Is that Jake’s rocket ship? Ethan’s snowflake?”
“What? No! This is my tree!”
“Then why does it say ‘Property of Suzana, Ethan & Jake’?” Mrs. Adams raised an eyebrow. “Wait a minute… did you steal their tree?”
“I… I… it was a fire hazard! I just moved it here.”
“What’s outrageous is stealing a single mom’s Christmas tree,” Mrs. Adams shot back. “What would your mother, bless her soul, think, Mr. Bryant?”
By noon, photos of Mr. Bryant’s tree were all over the internet, captioned: “When the Grinch Meets Karma” and “Why Stealing Someone’s Christmas is a BAD Idea!”
That evening, the doorbell rang. Mr. Bryant stood there, our tree behind him, his face as red as a tomato.
“Here’s your tree,” he muttered, avoiding my eyes. Glitter was all over his expensive shoes.
“Thank you, Mr. Bryant. The boys will be so happy.”
He turned to leave, then paused. “The rent’s still due on the first.”
“Of course. And Mr. Bryant? You might want to hose down your lawn. Glitter has a way of sticking around.”
An hour later, there was another knock. Mrs. Adams stood there with five other neighbors, arms full of ornaments, cookies, and an extra stunning Christmas tree.
“For inside the house,” she said, hugging me tightly. “No child should cry on Christmas. And Mr. Bryant should know better. His own mother was a single mom back in the day.”
The neighbors helped us set up both trees, sharing cookies and stories. Ethan and Jake decorated their new tree with laughter, their earlier sadness gone.
“Mom!” Jake called out, placing his rocket ship on a branch. “Look! Now we have two trees!”
“This really is the best Christmas ever!” Ethan added, his smile brighter than any light on a tree.
And just like that, our home was filled with love, laughter, and holiday joy.
As for Mr. Bryant? He hasn’t bothered us since. Karma truly is the gift that keeps on giving.
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