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St ille Nacht by Krist ine Kat hryn Rusch The girls are finally asleep. I have wait ed unt il I hear no more giggles coming from t he t iny bedroom. Now I have t aken out t he Sant a present s, and t hey are scat t ered on t he apart ment ' s scarred hardwood floor. I sit in t he narrow dining room, which gives me a good place t o hide as well as a view of t he hall. I t ' s hard t o put t he girls t o bed on Christ mas Eve. "Will Sant a come, Mommy?" Suzanne asks me every year. "Will he really come?" And I know what she' s asking. She' s not asking about Sant a. She' s asking about Daddy. "Sant a will come, honey, " I t ell her and add silent ly, _Daddy won' t _. Gret chen, on t he ot her hand, is simply aglow. She' s t oo young t o remember Will, t oo young t o recall all
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