Perhaps 2018 was my last ‘normal’ Christmas. My daughter was 3 that year. We baked cookies. We sat out the empty bag for Santa. I rocked her to sleep. Santa brought her a dollhouse – custom painted to look like OUR house. Funny how talented that Santa bloke is. I made my from-scratch cinnamon rolls the next morning and ate them with my husband as we watched our daughter delight in the general merriment.
In contrast, 2019 was anything but normal. My husband had left me in July, so we split our daughter’s Christmas day in two King Solomon style. He handed me a bottle of red in a holiday bag when he picked her up at noon. I was bitter and hurt so I refused the gesture, closed the door behind them, and cried.
