When I was seven, I wrote a letter to Santa asking for my mother back. Instead, I got a bike.
Since then, my father and I never spoke much about Christmas. I disregard his awful, effortless presents. He was so busy with work; we never understood each other.
Years later, I spied on him placing gifts under the tree as he muttered to an oblong object propped up aside him. It was a picture of mother, and he asked her if I’d like a pair of diamond earrings he picked out.
I didn’t, but I’ve worn them ever since.
Since then, my father and I never spoke much about Christmas. I disregard his awful, effortless presents. He was so busy with work; we never understood each other.
Years later, I spied on him placing gifts under the tree as he muttered to an oblong object propped up aside him. It was a picture of mother, and he asked her if I’d like a pair of diamond earrings he picked out.
I didn’t, but I’ve worn them ever since.
