Finding Daddy Christmas

Chapter 1

Maya

The smell of vanilla frosting hangs in the air as I race around the kitchen, adjusting party supplies and double-checking my mental to-do list. The cupcakes are done, topped with little green dinosaurs that match the jungle-themed paper plates stacked neatly on the counter. The cake is chilling in the fridge, a stegosaurus Jackson insisted on, though I’m sure my attempt at sculpting its spikes will earn me a few giggles.

The house is quiet, except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic beyond the towering glass windows. I glance at the clock—only two hours left before the guests arrive, and there’s still so much to do. The decorations aren’t up yet. The balloons need inflating. The gift table isn’t set. My heart pounds in time with my hurried footsteps.

The house feels massive and hollow, a stark contrast to the warmth I’m trying to create for Jackson’s birthday. Sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the sprawling living room beyond the kitchen. Everything gleams—polished marble floors, minimalist furniture, perfectly staged artwork that looks like it belongs in a gallery instead of a home.

It's Owen's house. His dream. He loved the idea of a sleek, modern mansion in the hills. "It's perfect for us," he'd said when he convinced me to sign the papers. By "us," he meant him, his image, his rising stardom. To me, it feels more like a cold stage, a place to be seen rather than lived in. But I hadn't fought him on it. Not back then. I'd been too caught up in his enthusiasm, his magnetic smile, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about our future here. Now those memories feel like scenes from someone else's life—a naive woman who believed in fairy tales and Hollywood endings. The house had been another prop in Owen's carefully curated life, and I'd played my part perfectly until I couldn't anymore.

I shake off the thought and focus on the task at hand, pulling a stack of green and gold streamers from the counter. “Streamers, balloons, tablecloths,” I mutter to myself, mentally ticking off each item. The decorations clash with the sleek aesthetic of the house, but I don’t care. This is Jackson’s day, not a photo shoot for Architectural Digest.

"Hey Mom?" Jackson's voice pulls me from my thoughts. I turn to see him standing in the doorway, his curls tousled and a dinosaur Lego set clutched in his hand. His big brown eyes, so much like mine, light up when he sees the cupcakes. "Are those for my party?"

The sight of him makes my heart swell. Even with Owen's jawline starting to show through, he's still my baby boy, excited about birthday treats. He shifts from foot to foot, unable to contain his energy—a habit he definitely got from me, not his camera-ready father.

I crouch down to his level, brushing a curl away from his forehead. “They sure are, buddy. What do you think?”

His face lights up with a grin as he bounces on his toes. “They’re awesome! Can I have one now?”

"Not yet," I say with a laugh, tapping his nose. "We have to wait for your friends to get here. Besides, don't you want to help me finish getting everything ready? You know the party planner always gets first dibs on the leftovers."

He nods eagerly, bouncing even higher on those restless feet, and I hand him a stack of streamers. "Okay, go put these on the mantle in the living room. You remember how we practiced yesterday? Nice and even, just like we talked about."

"Yeah!" He darts off, the sound of his tiny footsteps echoing through the cavernous space. The pitter-patter reminds me of when he was younger, when those same feet would chase me around the house playing monster. I pause for a moment, watching him disappear around the corner, my stomach doing that familiar twist it always does on his birthday. At least he's excited. That makes one of us. The thought of dealing with Owen and his Hollywood smile for the next few hours makes me want to hide in the kitchen with the rest of those cupcakes.

I glance around the kitchen again, my eyes catching on the stainless-steel appliances and the perfectly aligned barstools at the island. Everything here feels like a set piece, like it’s waiting for a director to yell “Action!” I rub the back of my neck, trying to ease the tension I feel at creating the perfect party for Jax  and turn back to the cupcakes. They’re a little lopsided, but they’re real. That’s what I want for Jackson today—a real celebration, filled with laughter and love, even if the house doesn’t quite match.

As I start tying a gold ribbon around a stack of party favor bags, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the gleaming backsplash. My dark hair is pulled into a messy bun, and there’s a streak of green frosting on my cheek. I swipe it off with the back of my hand and sigh. This is fine. I’ve got this. Even if I have to do it alone. I’ve done it alone so many times.

My fingers tremble as I dial Owen's number. One ring. Two rings. The sound of rustling paper and distant voices filters through before his voice comes on the line.

"Maya? What's up?"

"Where are you? The party starts in two hours and I could really use your help setting up." I press the phone between my ear and shoulder, struggling with a tangled string of balloons.

"Party?" There's a pause, followed by the sound of him clearing his throat. "What party?"

The balloon string slips from my fingers. "Jackson's birthday party? The one we've been planning for weeks?" My stomach twists as silence stretches across the line. "Please tell me you didn't forget."

"Shit. Shit!" Papers shuffle in the background. "Maya, I can't make it. The premiere for 'Dark Horizon' is tonight. The whole cast needs to be there."

"Are you kidding me? Today is your son's birthday." I lower my voice to a furious whisper as Jackson's footsteps echo from the living room. "He's been talking about nothing else for days."

"I know, I know. But this is important too. The studio's counting on this premiere."

"More important than your son?"

"That's not fair." His voice hardens. "You know how this business works. One wrong move and—"

"Fine." The word comes out sharper than I intend. "Go to your premiere. But you better come straight here afterward. Jackson's going to want to see you before he goes to bed."

"Of course. I promise I'll be there as soon as it's over." He pauses. "Tell little man I love him, okay?"

"Just... don't be late." I slam the receiver down before he can respond, letting the phone clatter onto the counter. The kitchen suddenly feels colder, emptier. Through the archway, I can see Jackson carefully arranging streamers, completely unaware that his father has failed to prioritize his birthday again.

The phone feels as heavy as my heart as I set it down. My fingers trace the cool granite countertop, searching for stability as I try to compose myself. A soft padding of feet announces Jackson's return before I see him.

"Mom, I finished with the streamers!" He bounds into the kitchen, his sneakers squeaking against the marble floor. "Was that Dad on the phone? Is he coming?"

The hope in his voice makes my chest tight. I turn to face him, forcing my lips into what I hope is a reassuring smile as I fight back angry tears.  "Dad's got to work a little bit first, baby. But he promised he'll be here as soon as he can."

Jackson's shoulders drop slightly, but his smile doesn't fade completely. "Is he doing another movie thing?" He climbs onto one of the barstools, his legs swinging back and forth. "That's okay. He'll still make it for cake, won't he?"

"Of course he will." The words taste like lies on my tongue, but I push through. "You know your dad wouldn't miss your birthday cake. Especially not after you picked out that awesome stegosaurus design."

"Yeah!" He perks up, craning his neck toward the refrigerator. "Can I see it again?"

"Not yet, mister. It needs to set." I ruffle his curls, grateful for his resilience. "How about you help me blow up some balloons instead?"

The corners of his mouth twitch upward. "Can we use the helium tank this time?"

I nod, and his face lights up like a firework. As I help him get the tank from the closet, I send up a silent prayer that Owen will keep his promise this time. For Jackson's sake, he has to.

I stack magazines in neat piles, trying to impose some order on the chaos of party preparations. Jackson's helium-altered voice resounds through the living room as he entertains himself with balloons, singing the theme song from his favorite dinosaur cartoon.

The glossy cover of Entertainment Weekly catches my eye, and my hands freeze mid-sort. Owen's megawatt smile beams up at me, his arm draped casually around Angelina's waist. They're both dressed to the nines—him in a tailored black tuxedo that makes his blue eyes pop, her in a shimmering silver gown that hugs every perfect curve. The headline screams "Hollywood's Hottest Duo: Blake and Voltaire Sizzle in 'Dark Horizon.'"

My stomach twists. I know it's just PR. I've been in this world long enough to understand how the game works. But seeing them together, looking like they've stepped out of a fairy tale…

"Mom!" Jackson calls out. "Help me! The balloon got stuck in my hair!"

I shove the magazine to the bottom of the pile, grateful for the interruption. "Now how on earth did that happen?”

The image lingers in my mind though—Owen's hand resting on the small of Angelina's back, the way they fit together so effortlessly. The same way we used to, before Hollywood consumed him whole. What is going on with them, anyway?

"Mom?" Jackson's voice snaps me back to reality. "You okay?"

"Just thinking about where to put these magazines." I force a smile, moving toward him to help with the balloon situation. "Now, let's see what trouble you've gotten yourself into."

Owen, you'd better deliver this time.