Tilly lay on the rug in the living room, staring up at the Christmas tree. It was nearly teatime. Mom dozed on the sofa, her Christmas present book from Dad open by her side.
If Tilly squinted her eyes, the tree lights looked magical; they shone and danced like the real candles that Dad had lit all along the fireplace.
Tilly kept thinking about the den and the fir tree and the girl. It was too hard to keep it all a secret today.
“There’s a girl living next door, in that big garden…” she started to tell Mom.
“Hmmm.” Mom made a soft sighing sound.
Tilly looked up at her. She waited for Mom to say something about the girl. Mom sighed again and turned over slightly. Her eyes were closed.
“Are you asleep?” Tilly asked eventually.
Mom didn’t say anything. Tilly watched the way her body went up and down, steadily, as she breathed deeply. Yes, Mom was fast asleep.
Never mind. They had had a perfect day together. Tilly’s best stocking present was the tiny dollhouse to go in her dollhouse, the one she had seen and loved in the shop back in November. And her favorite proper present from Mom and Dad was a wooden box with real pastels and watercolor paints and brushes, and a real artist’s notebook with thick cream paper. That, and a new dress and leggings. She had put them on right away. Dad had cooked a Christmas lunch, and Tilly had eaten most of what was on her plate. In a minute, they would watch a movie together. Tilly wished this day would go on and on forever.
“Open the door, please, Tilly,” Dad called out.
Tilly went over to let him in. He was carrying a tray with tea and cake and a bowl of clementines. He set the tray down on the coffee table and went to put another log on the fire.
“Time for your movie,” Dad said. “Switch on the TV.”
“What about Mom?” Tilly said.
“What about me?” Mom said.
“I thought you were asleep!”
“Only a little nap,” Mom said. “I want to see the movie with you. I used to love this one. I first saw it when I was your age. With my sisters.”
“Would you like a sister?” Dad asked Tilly. “Or a brother?”
“I don’t know,” Tilly said. “I’ve never had one.”
Mom laughed. “Not long now, though. February. Less than two months, Tilly!”
The music was starting for the film. The title came up: The Railway Children. Tilly settled down to watch, leaning back against the sofa close to Mom. Dad poured the tea.
“Turn off the light,” Mom said. “Let’s watch it by the light from the candles and the fire and the lights on the tree.”
Outside it was dark. Inside, it was warm and safe and everything was going to be all right.