Christina Montgomery hit the remote, effectively turning off the stereo, heartbroken she still couldn't listen to the song she'd loved since her first memories of Christmas. The old Bing Crosby song, I'll Be Home for Christmas, had been sung around her parents' piano every year, their friends' and neighbors' voices raised, some lovely, some not so lovely, but all filled with the joy of the season.

She'd loved those Christmases, had looked forward to them as children do, with anticipation of both presents and communion with her friends. Friends who, like the generations before, stayed close even after graduations and marriages. Life had been so simple then, so fun.

Times had certainly changed.

Now the song brought tears to her eyes, shattered her heart all over again, reminding her of all she'd lost. Her friends had stopped coming around because they didn't know how to deal with the situation of someone so young losing so much, nor the questions that hung over her head like a ton of steel beams precariously bound by cotton threads. Their lives were still filled with love and laughter, new babies, new homes, new everything.

Her life was at a standstill. And had been since that fateful day two years, one month, and twenty-nine days before when two uniformed Marines showed up at her door, the older of the pair with a white collar around his throat.

She'd known even before they spoke, had felt the very life drain from her soul. The tears started and didn't stop for days. She hadn't been able to function for weeks. Her sweet baby girl hadn't understood, having already missed so much time with a father who had spent the better part of her life serving his country.

In some ways it was a blessing that Lisa barely remembered Johnny. She hadn't suffered the loss as deeply as she would have if there had been more memories. At the same time, Christina felt Lisa had been cheated out of knowing a great man. A man who would have made a wonderful father if he hadn't died only three weeks shy of the end of his final tour of duty.

Fury built, replacing sorrow. Her husband was dead. She knew it in her heart. She didn't believe what was being said, what had been insinuated. She refused to believe that just because his body had never been found, it meant he may have deserted. She knew him. They all knew him, which made it all that much harder to know that they still wondered if he was capable of such a deed.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then opened them to the deep concern clouding the eyes of her tow-headed seven-year old. A child who was every beat of her heart. "Hey, baby. Good morning."

Lisa opened her arms to be lifted for a hug. "You're sad again, Mommy."

Christina embraced her tightly, hating that Lisa had caught her in low spirits--again. She was doing better. Had been for a while now. But that song had torn open the wound.

"Mommy just has something in her eyes," she said, sitting her daughter back down. "You run on to your room and get dressed for school. I'll fix you some breakfast so you have all kinds of energy for today's fieldtrip."

Lisa nodded, her blond curls flying. "Okay! We get to send letters to Santa today and I'm getting a miracle!"

Christina smiled through the lump in her throat, curious, but knowing better than to ask what Lisa was going to ask of Santa. She could wait for Miss Cameron, Lisa's second grade teacher, to call her, as she would each parent who didn't have internet capabilities, with the children's lists.

Her spirits lifted with an all encompassing love as she watched her baby girl skip her way down the hall to her room. Life was so much easier when you believed in Santa Claus ... when you still believed in miracles.

She headed for the kitchen, determined to put her tears away for good. To give Lisa the best Christmas she could. To bury her sorrow, and begin again.