On Christmas Eve, my six-year-old, Yule, was dying from cancer, and all he wanted was a gift from his dad dressed as Santa.

I called Peter, my husband, begging him to come. His reply? "Can you stop blowing up my phone? I don't have time for this! I'm helping Tracey find Puffy. Do you know how upset she is?"

Oh, Tracey. His first love. And Puffy? Her dog.

I told him Yule might not make it through the night. His response? A straight-up dagger: "Don't act like this isn't your fault, Freya. If Yule hadn't kicked Puffy, none of this would've happened. Tomorrow, make sure he apologizes to Tracey."

Then he hung up.

That night, I sat with Yule, crying as I helped him celebrate his last Christmas.

By morning, Peter's social medias were still full of posts about that freaking dog.

Mine? Yule's obituary.

Ten years of marriage, gone.

Christmas Eve.

The hospital called, and the doctor's voice was sharp, panicked. "Mrs. Lane, Yule's condition has worsened. He's in critical care! We can't reach Mr. Lane—you need to come now!"

I didn't grab a thing, just ran out the door. Normally, I stayed with Yule, but tonight was Peter's turn. He promised.

So, where the hell was he?

On the drive over, I kept calling Peter. No answer. My hands shook as I typed out a message: [Peter! You promised tonight! Yule is in critical condition. Where are you?!]

When I got to the hospital, I bolted for the emergency room. A doctor stopped me, his face grim. "Mrs. Lane... please prepare yourself."

"No," I whispered, shaking my head. My voice cracked. "No! He was fine yesterday!"

The doctor grabbed my shoulders to steady me. "Mrs. Lane, Yule's condition was fragile. Without someone in the room to catch the subtle signs, we—" He hesitated, his voice softening. "We were too late. I'm so sorry."

I collapsed. My phone slipped from my hand as this suffocating pain ripped through me. All I could do was scream one word: "Peter!"

I don't know how long I stayed there, broken, before the operating room light blinked off. The surgeon stepped out, looking at me with tired eyes. "You should spend Christmas Eve with him."

Christmas Eve...

How did it come to this?

In the palliative care room, Yule stirred weakly. His voice was soft, hopeful. "Mommy, Daddy promised he'd dress up as Santa and bring me a gift tonight... right?"

I held his hand tightly, swallowing my grief. "Yeah, sweetheart. Santa's coming. I promise." My voice trembled.

Desperate, I opened my phone. Still no word from Peter. My thumb hovered, shaking, before I opened social media.

Tracey's newest post slapped me in the face:

[Puffy is missing. I can't breathe... Puffy, where are you?]

The photo attached was of some holiday-lit street. And in the corner? Peter. My husband. He wasn't here. He was out looking for Tracey's stupid dog.

I snapped. Left a comment before I could stop myself: [If Yule dies, I'll never forgive the two of you.]

Yule's small hand tugged mine. "Mommy, why are you crying?"

I looked up, trembling. My face was streaked with tears. Was it guilt? Heartbreak? Hate for Peter? Maybe all of it.

But none of that mattered now. I had to pull it together. Yule needed me.

I shoved my phone aside, wiped my face, and somehow forced a smile. "I'm just happy, baby. It's Christmas Eve, and you're here with me."

Not even a minute later, my phone buzzed. Peter.

For Yule's sake, I answered.

His voice exploded through the line. "Freya Wayne! Watch your mouth!"

I took a deep breath, trying to suppress the rage building inside me. Turning away, I lowered my voice and said into the phone, "Peter, Yule is dying."

Silence. Then a cold, bitter laugh. "What are you even playing at now? First, you throw a tantrum on Tracey's social media, and now you're dragging Yule into it for attention?"

It felt like the air had been sucked out of my lungs. Grief and fury churned in my chest, but with Yule lying just feet away, I forced myself to stay calm. My voice cracked. "Peter, I'm begging you..."

Tears streamed down my face as I stepped out into the hallway, leaving the nurse to watch over Yule. My composure snapped. "Get to the hospital. Now. You promised Yule you'd dress as Santa!"

"I don't have time for this!" Peter barked. "I'm helping Tracey find Puffy. Do you know how upset she is?"

"Christmas is tomorrow," he added. "And let's be honest, Freya, you're only this worked up because you're jealous of Tracey."

I closed my eyes, letting the silent tears fall.

Ten years of marriage, and it all clicked. To Peter, Yule and I didn't even matter as much as a dog.

I took a deep breath, forcing my voice to turn cold and steady. "Peter, tonight was your night to stay with Yule. If you hadn't left, maybe he wouldn't—"

"Enough!" Peter cut me off, annoyed. "I checked on Yule earlier, and he was fine! And Tracey only stopped by out of kindness. Yule was the one who kicked and hit Puffy—"

"What?!" I snapped. "Yule is terrified of dogs! And you let Tracey bring one near him? Do you even have a conscience?!"

Silence.

I could almost hear the gears turning in Peter's head as he remembered: Yule was allergic to dog fur.

That might've been why his condition had spiraled so quickly.

Then I heard her. Tracey's voice drifted through the phone, all sugar-coated innocence. "Peter, maybe Freya really does need you. I'll keep looking for Puffy myself. He was the first gift you ever gave me, you know? Even if we're not together, Puffy reminds me of you."

She paused, then added sweetly, "You already work so hard running the company. I don't want you exhausting yourself. If Freya can't give you a little space, maybe you should go back."

Peter reassured her, "Don't worry. She's always used Yule to manipulate me."

I laughed. A bitter, hollow laugh that scraped my throat.

There wouldn't be any more "manipulation" after tonight.

Without waiting for Peter to respond, I shouted into the phone, "Peter Lane! You killed Yule. You'll regret it for the rest of your life!"

I hung up and stormed back toward the hospital room, my chest tightening like a vice.

Yule couldn't spend his last Christmas Eve feeling abandoned.

I tore through every office on the floor until I found a doctor about Peter's height. Desperation clawed at me as I begged him to pretend to be Peter.

An hour later, the doctor walked into Yule's room, decked out in a Santa suit from a nearby shop. He held Yule's favorite toy, a little model car.

Yule's eyes lit up, shining with tears. "I knew Daddy wouldn't leave me..."

I bit back a sob, my hand clamped over my mouth, and pulled Yule into my arms.

A nurse snapped a picture. It was the last photo we ever took with him. Yule passed away that snowy Christmas Eve.

Afterward, I called Shaun—my only family left—and handled Yule's cremation on my own.

He was just six. I used to love how much he looked like Peter, how tall he was for his age. Now all that was left of him was a tiny urn.

Clutching it tight, I whispered, "You always wanted to see the ocean, Yule. Mommy's going to take you there and let you rest, okay?"

This world had been too cruel to him. The sea would be kinder.

When I stepped out of the funeral home, the sun was rising. Just thirty minutes earlier, Peter was still posting on social media about that dog.

Meanwhile, I posted Yule's obituary, saying goodbye to the world for him.

Before I blocked Peter for good, I sent one last message: [Let's get a divorce.]

Shaun was already at the airport when I landed. The moment he saw the urn in my hands, his throat tightened.

It was a long, silent drive before he finally said, "Don't worry. I won't let Peter get away with this."

I nodded.

Shaun took me to his villa, where I planned to crash for the night before scattering Yule's ashes in the ocean the next day.

But early the next morning, shouting from downstairs jolted me awake. A man's voice—sharp and furious—argued with one of the household staff.

I peeked out the window. It was Peter.

He was at the door, shouting at the staff member who blocked his way. "Tell Freya to come out!"

The staff didn't budge. "Our employer made it clear—you're not allowed in. Leave."

Peter sneered, refusing to back down. "I'm here to see my wife! Do I need your boss's permission for that?!"

Then, as if on cue, he turned and yelled at the house, "Freya! I know you're in there! Did you come all this way to seduce another man? No shame at all, huh? Get out here and bring my son with you!"

By now, neighbors were gathering to watch the scene. My stomach twisted. The last thing I wanted was to drag Shaun into this mess.

I threw on some clothes, ready to go downstairs, but Shaun grabbed my arm. "Freya, you don't have to deal with him."

I sighed. "We're still married. I have to end this."

The second I opened the door, Peter glared at me. "Finally decided to show yourself? Done fooling around with some guy?"

My blood boiled. After everything he'd done, this was what he had the nerve to say?

I didn't think—I just slapped him. Hard. "How did you even find me?"

Peter flinched, his face turning red, but he recovered fast, smirking as he laughed under his breath. "Don't forget—I bought the phone you're using. I can track you wherever you go."

Then his gaze flicked past me to the house. "Where's Yule? Bring him out, and let's go home."

That's when Tracey stepped out of a car parked nearby, wearing her usual fake, doe-eyed expression. "Peter, let it go," she said softly. "I don't blame Yule for what happened."

Peter whipped around, pointing a finger at me. "If Yule did something wrong, he needs to take responsibility! I won't let my son grow up as undisciplined as his mother!"

Before I could react, Shaun stormed forward. He grabbed Peter by the collar and slammed a fist into his face. Blood trickled from Peter's mouth as he staggered back.

"Yule is dead!" Shaun thundered. "Are you even human? You should be here to apologize to Freya, but no—you bring your mistress to humiliate her? You don't deserve to call yourself a man!"

Peter tilted his head, stunned by the punch, before recovering enough to sneer, "And who the hell are you to hit me?" His face twisted as if a lightbulb flicked on. "Oh, I get it. You're the guy Freya's been sneaking around with! And now you're cursing my son to be dead?!"

I shoved myself between them, forcing them apart. "This is my brother, Shaun," I snapped.

Peter froze, his face flickering with confusion before it hit him. His jaw dropped. "Wait—Shaun Wayne? CEO of Wayne Corp?!"

Before I could answer, the housekeeper approached with Yule's urn in her hands. "Ms. Wayne," she said softly, "it's time."

I took the urn, my grip firm as I turned to Peter. My voice was steady. "Yule is right here. If you still have any shred of decency as a father, come with us."

Peter's eyes locked on the urn like he couldn't comprehend what he was seeing. He shook his head. "Ridiculous! That's impossible! You can fool everyone else with this garbage, but not me!"

I started walking toward the car, speaking without looking back. "The funeral home texted you that night. If you don't believe me, check your phone."

Panic flickered across Peter's face as he pulled out his phone. His anger drained away, replaced by an unsteady uncertainty.

Tracey peeked at his screen, gasping as she covered her mouth. "But I've seen news stories before... those kinds of texts can be faked."

I ignored them both, numb, and pulled out my phone. Unblocking Peter temporarily, I sent him a video—the last video I'd ever taken of Yule.

The clip played. Yule, tiny and pale, clutched the Santa toy the doctor had given him. His small hands went limp, his eyes closing for the last time.

Peter's phone slipped from his fingers as he dropped to his knees, shaking. Then, like a man possessed, he staggered up and lunged at me, reaching for the urn.

I didn't flinch. I kicked him back, hard, and turned to follow Shaun to the car.

We drove in silence toward the ocean.

Peter, desperate and unhinged, stumbled after us, catching up just as I prepared to scatter Yule's ashes into the waves. His eyes were wild, bloodshot. He screamed, "No! You can't scatter my son's ashes!"

I turned to him, my voice icy. "The ocean's depth will match the weight of your sins, Peter. I want you to live every second of your life knowing this is all your fault."