The Gift She Didn’t Dare Ask For

The festive season slipped in silently for Sahara, slipping in without fanfare or warmth, like a visitor who knew she was no longer welcome.

The city had dressed itself beautifully — shop windows radiated amber and scarlet, fairy lights twined every street in borrowed joy, and strangers briskly walked by clutching parcels and promises. But behind the thin walls of her tiny apartment, Sahara sat at her small kitchen table, fixating on an unpaid bill she had already memorised word for word.

She had lost her job three weeks earlier.
Just before Christmas — as if the timing itself appeared a private cruelty.

It hadn’t been dramatic. No shouting, no scandal. Just a quiet meeting, a thoughtfully practised apology, and a phrase which rang out louder than anything else: “We’ve had to make cuts.”

Since then, her life had shrunk.

Shrunk to numbers.
Shrunk to worry.
Shrunk to survival.

There were twelve problems, she counted an endless sleepless night, because counting made the fear feel contained, as if she named them, they wouldn’t overwhelm her altogether.

One: She was two months behind on rent, and the landlord’s final notice sat unopened in her hallway, as though ignoring it might hold off the truth.
Two: The electricity bill was overdue, and she rationed the heating, wearing jumpers indoors and pretending the chill was temporary.
Three: Her phone bill was days from disconnection — and with it, the last thread tying her to potential work.
Four: Her bank balance stayed barely above zero, dipping into an overdraft she had promised herself she’d never touch.
Five: Her credit card was maxed out, the minimum payment approaching like a quiet threat.
Six: Her savings were gone, drained slowly and painfully over the past month.
Seven: Her grocery budget had shrunk to basics — bread, milk, eggs, rice — nothing festive, nothing indulgent.
Eight: Her public transport pass had expired, forcing her to walk everywhere, even in the cold.
Nine: She owed a friend money, a loan given kindly months ago, now weighed down by guilt.
Ten: Her internet bill was overdue, making job applications feel like they were balanced on borrowed time.
Eleven: She had no money for gifts, no way to show love in the currency everyone expected this season.
Twelve: And worst of all, she was one missed payment away from homelessness, a thought that sneaked inside her dreams and sat on her chest when she woke.

At her wits’ end, Sahara made a decision that amazed even herself.

She would disappear.

Not dramatically. Not forever. Just… quietly.

No family dinners.
No festive catch-ups.
No polite questions wrapped in tinsel: “So, what are you doing now?”
No comparisons, no well-meaning advice, no reminders of the things she had lost.

This Christmas would be silent.

She sent brief messages — “I’m keeping things low-key this year” — and ignored the rest. She switched her phone to silent. She stopped scrolling. She stopped explaining.

In her tiny apartment, she set up a small artificial tree she’d owned for years, no taller than the table it sat on. She decorated it with the same handful of ornaments — a chipped star, two silver baubles, and a strand of lights that glowed intermittently if she touched them wrong.

It wasn’t much.
But it was hers.

On Christmas Eve, she put on her coat and walked to the local grocery store. The wind was sharp, the pavement covered in frost. Inside, the store bustled alongside last-minute urgency — full trolleys, tired parents, laughter edged with stress.

Sahara moved slowly through the aisles, calculator open on her phone, weighing every choice. She chose store-brand everything. She put back the chocolate. She stood too long in front of the festive bakery display before walking away.

At the checkout, the total flashed up — just under her control limit.

As the cashier scanned her items, Sahara’s eyes shifted to the small plastic stand beside the register.

Lottery tickets.

She almost laughed.

She didn’t believe in winning. She barely believed in luck anymore. But something about it — the silliness, the little insurrection — evoked something soft and reckless nestled buried in her chest.

Why not? she thought.
Everyone deserves one small, useless hope.

She bought one ticket. Just one.

Not because she expected anything — but because she wanted something to wrap, something to place underneath her tiny tree. A gift to herself that wasn’t practical, wasn’t necessary, wasn’t survival-driven.

A whim.

Back home, she wrapped the ticket carefully in brown paper and tied it with a string. It looked humble and hopeful at the same time. She placed it under the tree and turned off the lights.

That night, sleep came slowly.

Christmas morning arrived pale and quiet.

No messages.
No plans.
No pressure.

Sahara made herself instant coffee and sat on the floor beside the tree. She stared at the small parcel beneath it — her only gift — and smiled sadly at the simplicity of it all.

“Well,” she spoke quietly, “Merry Christmas to me.”

She unwrapped it slowly, savouring the moment — because even pretend joy deserved time.

When she scratched the ticket, she didn’t expect anything. Not really.

But then she paused.

She scratched again.

Her heart began to beat louder.

She checked the numbers once.
Twice.
Three times.

Her hands quivered.

It couldn’t be right.

She grabbed her phone, frantically searched, and confirmed the rules. Her breath came short, shallow, disbelief pressing, beating rapidly, buried in her chest.

It was real.

She had a winning ticket.

Not a fortune — not a headline-making sum — but enough. Enough to breathe. Enough to live. Enough to change everything.

Sahara laughed — a sound that startled her with its brightness — and then she cried, tears flowing freely, unchecked, unashamed. She rested her brow on the floor and let relief sweep over her in waves.

Rent paid.
Bills cleared.
Food without fear.
Time to find work without panic.

For the first time in weeks, her shoulders dropped.

Outside, the city stirred awake, unaware of the small miracle unfolding behind a calm window.

Sahara wiped her tears, stood, and turned on the tiny tree lights. They flickered — imperfect but glowing.

She lifted her phone and typed a message she hadn’t planned to send.

Merry Christmas, she wrote — to herself, to the world, to the version of her who had survived when it looked hopeless.

Sometimes, the greatest presents come wrapped not in certainty, but in hope — given not because we expect miracles, but because we dare to believe we still deserve them.

And on that quiet Christmas morning, Sahara learned something she would never forget:

Even in the smallest life, magic can still find room to land.

By SOS

Happy Reading