Page 126 of Already Callin’ You Mine

“O’tay!” Otis bounces on the balls of his feet, like he has springs under his heels.

“There’s a twist though!” I continue. “If you find the great big one, that’s worth ten points!”

Otis takes off running, not waiting for any more instructions. I shake my head laughing, loving his energy. And maybe more than a little jealous of it.

“How many candy canes did you hide?” Presley asks, pushing up from the couch to go join in.

I shrug. “I dunno. How many come in a box? Twelve? I figure he’ll do most of the work anyway.”

“And just how big is the great big one?”

Her mom voice is activated, and I can already see the concerns of a sugar meltdown dancing like the sugarplum fairy in her head. Good thing I’m one step ahead.

“Don’t worry, it’s⁠—”

“Like this one?”

Otis skids to a stop in front of us, his socks failing to give him the traction he’s looking for on that hardwood. He waves the massive stuffed candy cane—the one that is almost as big as he is—showing off the newfound treasure.

Well…so much for that taking a while…

“Just like that, Little Man. Did you pick up the box that went with it?”

Eyes going wide, Otis takes off again, slipping and sliding as he moves. He makes a noise as he locates the box, the pounding of his feet against the floor giving him away as he returns.

“Is it for me? Can I open?”

“Let’s open it together,” I answer, pulling him onto the couch with me.

Presley chuckles, sitting back down and plopping Otis in her lap. Wasting no time, he tears at the paper with abandon, sending shreds of it flying. I watch intently, bobbing out of the way of a flying fist at one point, my pulse kicking up.

Here goes…

Opening the small white box, Otis pulls the tissue paper off the small, plastic item.

“Is this for the tree?”

“It is.”

He looks back at the ornament, taking it in. The cartoon figures drawn on it only resemble us based on hair color, but looking at it makes my heart happy nonetheless. The inscription on it even more so.

“What does this say?” Otis holds it up, pointing to the words.

Presley peers over him, gasping. I reposition myself so I can grab the ornament, holding it up for both of them to look at.

“It says, Dad, Mama, and Otis Hayes,” I explain, pointing to each character in the cartoon.

Presley sniffles. I catch her gaze, those beautiful blue-gray eyes filled with tears. I don’t even have to say it. She knows what I’m asking.

“That’s not my name,” Otis declares, in a way that only a three-year-old can. It’s not accusatory or mean, simply a squeakily stated fact.

“Would you like it to be?” I ask.

“Why?”

Good question, Little Man…

“Because then you and I would have matching last names.”