The one time of year when the whole family gathered in the house that had been my home for 43 years. The house where I’d raised Marcus after his father died, working two jobs to keep us afloat, sacrificing everything to give him the life he deserved. Marcus arrived first with the children, Emma, 10, and little Jake, seven. They ran to me with genuine excitement, their faces lighting up when they saw me. Emma hugged my waist tight. Grandma Dela, we missed you so much. Those moments made everything worthwhile.
I held them close
I held them close, breathing in their innocence, their pure love that asked for nothing in return. They didn’t care that I wore the same dress I’d had for 5 years, or that my hands were rough from years of work. They just loved me. “I missed you, too, sweetheart,” I whispered into Emma’s hair. “Go wash up. Dinner will be ready soon.” Rya’s parents arrived next, followed by Marcus’s uncle Tom and his wife. The house filled with chatter and laughter. The kind of warm chaos that reminded me why I love the holidays. For a brief moment, I allowed myself to feel that familiar warmth of being surrounded by family. We gathered around the dining room table, the one I’d bought with my first Christmas bonus 20 years ago.Family
