Treasure Hunters

Christmas is hard. Divorce is hard. Christmas when your parents are divorced is hard.

It’s the gift no one asked for. It’s a dance no one rehearsed, but everyone is expected to know. There’s the shuffling between houses and the hurried transitions on icy driveways. Schedules have to be coordinated with precision: Mom’s on Christmas Eve until 9 AM sharp Christmas morning, Dad’s for Christmas Day, and back to Mom’s for the night—if the weather doesn’t interfere or the gatherings don’t run too long.

For Ethan, this year promised to be no different. He sat in the back seat of Dad's car, watching the snow blur past the window, his headphones snug over his ears. Next to him, Caleb—his little brother—was busy trying to scrape the frost off the inside of the window with his fingernail. They were on their way to Mom’s now, and Dad had already asked them twice if they’d remembered the gifts they’d picked out for her. Ethan had checked; Caleb had forgotten.

The fear loomed, as it always did: What if they got two of something they didn’t care about—or worse, not even one of what they really wanted? Last year, it had been Caleb’s prized video game. Mom had said it was “too violent,” and Dad had given him a cheap handheld version instead. Caleb had cried on the way to Mom’s that afternoon, his tears drying just before they pulled into the driveway. But, he was eleven then. He wouldn’t cry about something like that this year. 

This year, Ethan tried not to think about what he’d asked for. He was twelve now, old enough to know better than to get his hopes up. Caleb, though, hadn’t learned that yet. At nine, he still wrote to Santa and circled items in the toy catalog like they were promises instead of possibilities. Ethan envied him for it sometimes, though he’d never admit it.

The car bounced over a patch of ice, jolting both boys in their seats. Caleb grinned, the frost on his window forgotten, and pressed his face to the glass. “Almost there!” he chirped. Ethan glanced out, the lights of Mom’s house glowing softly in the distance.

He wondered if this year would feel any different or if Christmas would always feel like pieces of something broken, awkwardly glued back together. Caleb didn’t seem to mind the cracks. Maybe that was enough.

The Christmas Eve festivities had been pleasant; they enjoyed the feast their grandmother always prepared and sank into the comfort of the four presents they always received Christmas Eve night: something to wear, something to read, something they want, and something they need. It was the same usually, a pair of pajamas, a book, then something special for the latter two. Caleb got his pogo stick from Grandma, and Ethan got a book series. This wasn’t looking too hopeful.

As they settled back at their home that night, Ethan’s mom saw them off to bed. “You seem to have something on your mind,” she whispered as she stood at the door.

“It’s just that Christmas doesn’t seem like such a big deal anymore. I’m old, you know. It’s just a normal day.”

She smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “It can feel that way sometimes. But Christmas isn’t about the presents, or even how big it feels. It’s about the people you’re with. Focus on them, and you might be surprised by what you find.”

Mom advice; thoughtful advice. 

Ethan had made the same comment to his dad earlier. There had been no talk about feelings though, or making the best of it. Instead, his dad replied, "You know what? That’s a real slap in the face. I bust my ass trying to make Christmas something special for this family, and you sit there like it’s just another Tuesday. When I was your age, I might not have understood everything about the holidays, but I sure as hell knew enough to be grateful. This day isn’t just about you or how old you feel—it’s about family, about taking one damn day to appreciate what you have and the people around you. You think I do this for fun? The planning, the money, the time? No. I do it because I care about this family, and I care about you. And when you act like it doesn’t matter, like none of it’s worth your time, it feels like you’re spitting on everything I’ve tried to give you. You want to act like Christmas doesn’t mean anything? Fine.”

There just wasn’t a right answer – it couldn’t be just another day, but it didn’t feel like it was anything special. Maybe tomorrow would be special, Ethan thought as he drifted off to sleep. 

Christmas morning had been a whirlwind of wrapping paper and laughter, the kind of morning where the air felt alive with possibility. Among the pile of gifts was a metal detector, shiny and new, a shared present for the brothers. It was Ethan who had unwrapped it, his eyes lighting up at the possibilities. "Treasure hunters!" he had declared, while Caleb, nodded with the enthusiasm that only a little brother could muster.

By mid-afternoon, they were in Windsor Park. The large rectangular lawn stretched endlessly before them, grass crunching under their boots. 

Ethan carried the metal detector, while Caleb trailed behind with the shovel.The machine chirped frequently, and each time Ethan would stop, study the display, and announce, "Nails. Just nails." Sometimes Caleb would dig anyway, his small hands eager for discovery, but it was always the same—rusty scraps of metal or smooth, unremarkable rocks.

Their search led them to the far edge of the park, where a line of scraggly, greenish evergreen bushes stood like watchmen. The metal detector suddenly let out a higher-pitched tone, different from before. Ethan’s posture straightened. “That’s something,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of real excitement for the first time all day.

Caleb didn’t wait for permission. He pushed back the brittle branches with one hand and began to dig with the other. The sound grew louder, more insistent. A shape emerged beneath the soil, catching the dim light of the winter sun.

“It’s a ring!” Ethan exclaimed, eyes wide as he studied the interface of the metal detector.

But his excitement faltered as Caleb brushed away more of the dirt.

The ring wasn’t loose, wasn’t buried alone. It was wrapped around a finger, pale and unmoving, attached to a cold, gray hand.

Caleb’s breath caught. He stumbled back, dropping the shovel. Ethan stood frozen, the metal detector beeping wildly in his grip. The bushes swayed slightly in the breeze, as if they, too, were holding their breath.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Finally, Ethan spoke, his voice shaking. “We… we have to tell someone.”

Caleb nodded but didn’t move, his wide eyes fixed on the buried hand. Slowly, Ethan reached out to take his arm, pulling him back toward the path. “Let’s go home.”

When they arrived, Ethan shoved the metal detector into the back corner of the garage. They sat silently by the fireplace, their boots dripping melted snow onto the hearth.

“Any treasure?” their mother asked expectantly as she brought in mugs of hot cocoa, little white marshmallows floating on top.

Ethan’s voice was scratchy as he replied, “No. Nothing worth keeping.”

His mother smiled softly, misinterpreting his tone. “Ah, well, sometimes the best treasure isn’t what you’re looking for. It’s the time you spend together.”

Caleb’s eyes filled with tears, and Ethan stayed silent, his hands tightening around the warm mug. Their mother didn’t press further, instead gathering their things for the drive back to their dad’s.

As they climbed into the car, Ethan glanced at Caleb, who was staring out the window. He reached out, resting a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “We’ll figure it out,” he whispered. And for the first time that day, Caleb nodded.