Five years later, a young Roz had managed to convince her mother that she needed to see Santa Claus or she would not get the bike she so wanted, the one her mother referred to as the "bright pink monstrosity." Smart as she was, she knew her only chance at the bike was through Santa.

She picked out her favorite dress, red crushed velvet, and had her mother pull up her hair with a matching red ribbon. "Do I look pretty?" she'd asked a million times, hoping that her appearance would also help sway Santa's decision. She was too young to notice the pained look on her mother's face as she fussed over her outfit and hair. Alex could have cared less about her own clothes and would have been content to have a child who was satisfied with second-hand clothes, but instead, she had a miniature Paige on her hands, a child who enjoyed malls and window shopping, who insisted on dressing like a Disney princess every Halloween, who wouldn't leave the house without nail polish and shoes that sparkled.

She had expensive tastes. Of course she did. And Alex had a very light wallet. It had always been that way. It wasn't for lack of trying. Having a daughter had motivated her to work like never before, not even when she was trying to save her mother. The need to provide for both of them, her mother and her daughter, had even led her to strip, not exactly one of her finest moments. But the money had been totally worth it. On a good night, she could bring home a couple hundred. By the end of the month, she had enough to meet all of their financial needs – which was mainly to pay the rent that her mother's loser boyfriend had squandered. But her mother used it to bail the bastard out, meaning they were still going to be evicted. She'd sold herself for them and it hadn't gotten her anywhere. So she picked up her daughter and left. Walked right out the door and didn't look back.

They'd stayed a while in a shelter and she felt an even greater shame than when she'd twirled on the stripper pole in her skivvies and less. She'd failed her daughter. She, who had spent far too many nights in shelters like these with her own mother, was now on the verge of repeating her mother's mistakes. She would not do that. She would be for Roz what Emily had failed to be for her.

The shelter helped her find a job and a tiny, scuzzy apartment. She thought if she worked hard enough, if her heart was in the right place and her intentions noble, it would work out and she would escape poverty. But it wasn't to be. They lived paycheck to paycheck, and sometimes didn't make it even that far – and that was using every penny of assistance she could get. And when there was a little extra, it went to Roz. She wanted pretty things, flouncy dresses, shiny baubles, cool shoes, most of which she would never have.

What Alex couldn't get for her, she bartered and begged for. Paige had been a cheerleader, and while she didn't particularly wish that for her own daughter, she wondered if she would be graced with nimble feet and a sense of rhythm and movement. She called every ballet and gymnastics school in Toronto until she found one that would take her on as a charity case. The child loved it. Still, in her mind she felt that Paige would approve of the decision, and then she kicked herself for thinking about Paige at all.

Now, though, they stood there at the mall, in a line two hours long, as Roz danced and twirled around half out of boredom and half out of excitement, talking incessantly about all the important things in her life and especially about the bike. Alex was only half listening – besides the looks and the obsession with fashion, Roz had managed to pick up Paige's motor mouth. So Alex casually watched the crowds as the child rambled on, trying her damnedest to make time go faster, and trying to figure out why that one face, the one that was looking in her direction, was so familiar… the dark blonde curly hair, the sharp chin and eyes. It took some time, but she finally placed him. Dylan. Dylan Michalchuk was standing just 20 metres away, staring. He didn't look angry, or confused, or shocked. He just stared. But the lack of a smile when they made eye contact said he knew very well who fathered that child.

As soon as Alex's brain started to work again, she scooped her four-year-old up in her arms. "How about we forget Santa and just go buy the bike right now? That way you don't have to wait till Christmas." She was grateful she'd worked so much overtime the last six months that she'd already managed to save up for Roz's big gift.

"Really?" asked Roz, about to burst with happiness at this unexpected miracle, wrapping her arms around her mother's neck and covering her with kisses. And with that, Alex whisked her daughter away, not even looking back.

A month later, a check arrived in the mail. To Alex, it was a small fortune, one that would easily give them a month of security and then some. But to accept it meant to accept a great many things which she never would. And so she returned it. And all the checks that followed, until they finally stopped coming.