I walked across the carpeted living room towards the christmas tree, decoration box in hand. My family would be here any minute and I still had to put up the ornaments and set the table. But this year, I had neither the wish nor a reason to celebrate. I sighed as I bent down, setting the chipped and faded cardboard box on the floor.

I sat cross legged beside the box and started pulling them out one by one. The first thing that I found in my hand was an old and battered photograph of my mother and I. I immediately recognised it. It was taken when I was five years old and my mother, barely twenty eight.

She was wearing a green dress that seemed to dance in the wind around her feet. I wore a black tank top and shorts with a huge ice cream in my hand and an equally huge smile pasted on my small face. She was laughing without a care in the world, her dimples prominently visible.

My mother looked beautiful. She looked smart and caring and strong and loving. I hugged the photograph close to my chest, shuddering as I refused to let the tears fall. The urge to sob was overpowering and I clutched the photo closer, until my knuckles turned white.

My mother had passed away a year ago. And I was the most disgraceful daughter in the world. I wasn't there when my mother was under treatment. I wasn't there even when she kept asking for me. I wasn't there when she took her last breath. I was working for a job, in a city 12 hours away, that couldn't give me a fraction of the happiness my mother gave me.

The guilt and pain wrecked through me, causing whirlpools of sadness in my chest that seemed to weigh me down. I couldn't stop my tears anymore as I looked down at the photograph once more. I missed her. I missed her so much and not a day goes by when I don't wish that I could take it all back.

My tears slid down the back of the photograph and spilled on my hand. I wiped my eyes dry, now stinging from the crying. I reached into the box again and set the photo aside. My fingers now brushed against a wooden but smooth curved surface, the touch of which caused another constricting pain in my chest.

I knew what it was even before I saw it in front of my eyes. A polished wooden tree topper in the shape of an angel stared back at me with elegantly carved eyes. It was my grandmother's and she had passed it on to my mother as a housewarming gift.

My mind reeled back to the cold November day when I was just over seven. I was running about a house, which would later be our first and final home that we grew up in. But at the moment, it was nothing but a wide empty space, perfect for a child's imaginary kingdom. I remembered my mother running after me, playing, as my father checked the walls for any damages or leaks.

We moved in on Christmas Eve and my mother threw a big Christmas and housewarming party that day. My grandmother came in with sparkling eyes and a wide smile on her face. She bought eggnog and cookies, two of my favourites and she spent the evening telling me stories about stars and Jesus.

When the party was over and people started leaving one by one, I held on to my grandmother's dress and refused to let go. She stroked my head gently, coaxing me when my mother came in. I immediately ran to her and started crying, absolutely hating that my grandmother had to go back home.

My mother picked me up and gave me the warmest and tightest hug that I would ever receive. She whispered into my ear, "If you don't let Mrs. Claus go home, then how will Santa come with your presents?" I stared at my grandmother wide eyed and I couldn't wait to tell my friends at school that my grandmother was married to Santa Claus.

My grandmother laughed at the expression on my face and handed my mother a box. She opened it to find an angel tree topper that my grandmother's family had had for centuries. The sculpture looked old but it's sheen didn't have a scratch. Its brilliant wings and serene face added the touch of heaven and it glowed in all its beauty.

My mother broke down and hugged her mother tightly, repeatedly saying 'thank you' and that it was 'an honour'. I was too young to understand what it met to our family. I had wanted to hold it but my mother had said, "Someday, I will pass this on to you. Just like grandma did. And we will hang it together."

Sitting in front of an enormous tree today, with the tree topper that my mother never had the chance to hand over to me, I realised it's value. It was a symbol of togetherness and belonging. Even after the giver is gone, the memory of their hands placing it in yours is everlasting and of utmost peace.

I hugged the angel just like I had enveloped my mother's picture, close to my heart. It still had her lingering fragrance of coconut oil and lavender soap. My eyes started stinging again and I knew that it was no use trying to stop them.

So I wept.

I held the picture and the angel and I wept. I cried for the first time in ten months. It felt like a raging storm in my chest was tearing me apart mercilessly. I knew I deserved it. I deserved that pain. I deserved my heart being wrecked and shattered into a million pieces.

Rose Zane. Successful lawyer to the stars but just as much of a disgraceful daughter. A daughter who loved her mother so much that while she was so busy making money for her, she forgot that her mother only needed her. A daughter who didn't get to hold the angel's hand who never left her hand while she was growing up.

A daughter full of regrets. A daughter who just wanted one shot at redemption. A daughter who only wanted to be with her mother one last time.

I whispered to the angel in my hand, tugging at the wild hope that a Christmas miracle would come knocking at my door, "I just want to talk to her. Please, I am so sorry Ma, I am so sorry."

I heaved a sigh as sobs kept breaking out. I closed my eyes and counted up to ten and down again. I exhaled and inhaled as slowly as possible, letting my shivering body calm down. I wiped my face, now soaking and damp with my tears and pulled my hair back in a knot.

I took out the other ornaments in the box. All of them were from my childhood, some from the housewarming, some from the year I was born, some from the year my sister was born and some new ones that I had bought for my mother last year. I had mailed them to her since I wasn't approved for a leave as a major case had come up. She'd kept them aside and had promised that the next time I came home, we would decorate the tree together.

I kept those new ornaments aside, distaste in my heart. I didn't want to hang those without her and I wouldn't. I started placing the shiny colourful balls and candy canes on the tree just like my mother had taught me. Each ornament carried a story, a memory and I relived each one of them. By the end of it all, I was smiling.

My mother had never failed to make the best out of Christmas. She always had an anecdote to share, her famous roasted chicken potpourri and her delicious eggnog. She used to place a red and gold tablecloth at the table and surround it with small plants and beautiful wreaths.

I reached down to pick up the box and found the very same cloth, lying at the bottom. I tear slipped down my cheek as I picked it up. I dusted it, carried it to the dinner room and placed it on the table. It looked wonderful on the table, just the way it did all these years. Just then, the oven started beeping. I put on my mittens and pulled out the roasted chicken potpourri I had tried making.

I blew on it slowly and placed it in the middle of the table. I went back into the living room, placed the angel and the picture on the mantelpiece, picked up the box I'd left on the floor and rushed up to the attic to place it back again. I coughed my way down the stairs when the doorbell rang.

Creasing my eyebrows together in confusion, I walked towards the door. On my way, I caught sight of the clock. It was only six in the evening. My father and sister were supposed to be here after seven. Maybe they were here early.

I shook my head and yelled, "Comin'!" I threw the door open and a cold blast of wind hit me straight in the face. There was no snow but the surroundings felt as if we were suddenly living in Antarctica. I squinted my eyes and saw a shivering man. His face was covered because of the huge hood he wore over his head. He had three heavy trench coats on and yet, I could hear his teeth chattering.

I immediately moved aside and beckoned him inside. "Don't keep waiting there. It's too cold. Come on in," I said, keeping the Christmas spirit in mind. After all, I couldn't add any more sins to my list even if the man I had just invited in turned out to be an axe murderer.

The man muttered a grateful 'thank you' and stepped inside. I held out my hand to collect all three of his coats. He shrugged them off and the first thing that I noticed were his eyes. They were deep blue, like the ocean was drowning in them and looked directly into my hazel green eyes which were now red rimmed from the crying.

He had a lean body underneath and a smooth wheatish skin. His curly brown hair stuck out in all directions and I fought the urge to smooth it out. He looked adorable and I was suddenly conscious of myself. He handed me the coats and I went to hang them on the coat rack. "Please sit down. How can I help you?"

The man took his hands out of his gloves and I relaxed immediately. My mother always said that people who had clean nails and boots could be trusted. He rubbed his now bare hands together and I got up to get a glass of water for him. He really was in a horrible condition.

"Ma'am please, I'm okay. Sit down. I have something for you," he implored.

"If you say so," I said and sat back down on the couch opposite to him. "So, um, what is it?" I said and spread my hands out.

"Miss Zane, my name is Shawn Cortana and I'm the head of communications in our state. I oversee the letters, the telephone lines, the internet connections. Everything digital."

"And what does that have to do with me, Mr. Cortana? And please, call me Rose," I said and his blue eyes turned dark with a sadness I couldn't quite place.

"Rose, I," he paused, "I don't know how to say this. Last year, around Christmas, I found a letter on my desk. It was from an old woman who had come to my office late at night carrying a letter in her hand. She asked the night guard to help her post the letter to someone. The guard told her that I wasn't in my office so late but he let her in because she looked sick and tired.

The next morning, after the guard told me about the woman, I checked the letter. I realised that there was no address written on it. I had no idea who to deliver it to. It was already too late and the night guard had no idea who she was. I was troubled as I wanted to help.

But I couldn't do anything. So, I kept the letter with me. For a whole year. Today, while I was at home, my guard came by my house, a newspaper in hand. He pointed out an obituary and he sweared on god that this was the same woman who had visited my office that day.

I grabbed hold of the letter and I came here as soon as possible with it. Rose, I'm so sorry for your loss and I can only imagine how much this means to you." He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope, already yellowing at the edges.

My tears had started flowing again. It was one thing to go through memories and another to receive a letter. One written by my mother before she left us. I accepted the letter with trembling hands and tore the envelope open. I pulled out the folded piece of paper and started reading it, oblivious to Shawn's eyes on me.

Dated: 22nd December, 2017.

My darling Rose,

How are you? Baby, can you come back home for Christmas? It is okay if you don't find the time. I know you have a big case to win. I am in no rush. And neither should you. I promise you, I am fine and doing well, okay?

Do you remember when you were just ten years old but you were always the smartest one in the room? My chest used to swell up with pride and joy. And when I read about your wins in the newspaper, I felt like my ten year old Rose was making me proud all over again.

My beautiful baby, you have nothing to be sorry for. You have made your mother so, so happy. You have grown to be the strongest, smartest, kindest, sweetest, the most beautiful and gracious woman I've ever seen. And I'm so glad to be able to call you my daughter.

Your passion for your job is so inspiring. You have no idea how many neighbours come to me everyday and congratulate me. Some young girls even drop by to tell me that they want to be just like you.

Never apologise for that. Never apologise for being dedicated and committed. There will come a time when I am no longer here and neither is your father. You cannot and will not beat up yourself over us, you hear me?

Go win that case. You go, girl? Isn't that what they say these days? Never mind my English now. Do come home as soon as you receive this. My heart aches for you, my child. I love you to eternity and beyond, sweetheart.

Love,
Mom.

I clasped a hand shut over my mouth and my head started throbbing. My mother- How did she know what would happen now? She wasn't even diagnosed when the letter was written. She was so proud of me-

I couldn't complete my train of thought as I suddenly broke down. My mother said everything to me in that letter. She forgave me. She wanted me to be strong for her. It felt just like talking to her, I thought. Suddenly a pair of arms held me close. I stiffened, realising it was Shawn.

"It's okay. She loved you a lot," he said and patted my head. I leaned into him, the comforting smell of wood and cologne mixing together. I squeezed my eyes shut. We stood like that for a long time, me crying over his shoulder and Shawn holding me.

When I finally calmed down after my third breakdown of the day, my eyes fell on the angel standing on the mantelpiece. My words came back to me as I stared at it, it's heavenly face smiling at me:

I whispered to the angel in my hand, tugging at the wild hope that a Christmas miracle would come knocking at my door, "I just want to talk to her. Please, I am so sorry Ma, I am so sorry."