Christmas Is Not Cancelled
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My brother came over and sat down beside me and said, “I don’t think Santa Claus will come tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s no chimney. And besides, it would mean we’d have to climb down the outside of the house,” he replied, then turned toward our parents’ bedroom. “And look at Mom and Dad!”
He was right. Mom and dad were both sitting on their beds reading the comics section of the Sunday paper—my sister, too. We all stared in disbelief as they kept looking up at us like nothing was going on. Finally, mom put the paper away and went upstairs, but she stopped by my room before leaving for her own.
“Don’t get any ideas,” she told me sternly. “You’ll ruin Christmas if you go down there now.” She kissed my cheek and left.
My heart pounded with excitement. My brother followed me down to the basement, where the festivities were already in full swing.
There were gifts everywhere! In addition to the tree and presents under it, there were piles of presents under the kitchen table, around the dining room table, in every available nook and cranny, on the floor, on top of the fridge…and some places even further out. I looked down at one place, and there was a stack of wrapped packages on the floor between a pile of empty boxes and the water heater.
I reached down and grabbed one, thinking it might be for me or for one of my friends at school, but it felt heavy enough for someone in my family, so I pulled back my hand. The box was heavy—very heavy! I took a deep breath and tried again, and this time I managed to get it open.
What did I find inside? A big blue stuffed animal, wearing a green hat and carrying an orange present in his paws.
“What is that?” I asked my brother.
“A snowman,” he said, sounding disappointed. He pointed at another package on the floor near the furnace. “Look. That’s your present.”
Sure enough, it was my gift—a red snowmobile jacket with a matching helmet. I ran into my parents’ room and jumped onto the bed, wrapping myself tightly in my new blanket. I hugged my father and thanked him, then hugged my mother and kissed her on the cheek.
They both laughed, then started hugging each other. My sister joined us and we all held hands while our parents explained that this had been their idea.
“It wasn’t easy for us,” my mother began. “But we wanted to give you three something different from what you normally get.”
She continued talking about how happy she was that things were getting better, and how proud she was of her children until my father interrupted her.
“I love all three of you equally,” he said simply, then looked at me. “Especially the two who got here first.”
He meant me and my brother. I could tell he was trying to make peace, but it hurt more than anything else that night. When we went back downstairs, my brother opened up his present first. He unwrapped a set of stereo headphones, which he immediately put on and tested out.
“Hey, that sounds great!” he exclaimed happily. “Can I borrow them later?”
My brother and I exchanged knowing glances, and after a few moments of hesitation, I shrugged my shoulders and said yes. My parents smiled and said that if he used them without asking, they wouldn’t replace them. He smiled, too. Then we all went downstairs and helped ourselves to breakfast.
The next hour flew by so quickly it seemed impossible. By 11:00, everything was ready, including a huge feast of ham, turkey, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, vegetables, salad, rolls, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie with whipped cream, cherry pie, apple pie, ice cream, and chocolate chip cookies.
As my family and I sat at the dining room table, I could feel that the spirit of the occasion was beginning to lift my spirits. My father was talking about what a wonderful Christmas it had been so far, and everyone agreed.
“Now that it’s over, maybe you can start enjoying it,” my mother said, smiling. “You’ve spent all your energy worrying about whether or not your son was coming home.”
My heart sank when she said that. She hadn’t realized that all her words had only made me worry more. I looked up at the clock. It was almost eleven o’clock.
“We should be able to pick him up in about ten minutes,” my father added cheerfully. “Do you guys want to help carry out the rest of the gifts?”
Everyone shook their heads and my brother said he couldn’t wait to see what Santa Claus brought him. I nodded but didn’t say anything because I didn’t have any good news to share. I knew that if I told them my plan, they would stop me before I could do it. So I remained silent.
After we finished eating, my family cleaned up the dishes while I stayed in my bedroom and pretended to be asleep. When they finally left the house, I grabbed my coat and headed back downstairs to finish my own preparations.
When I arrived on the main level, I saw my mother sitting in front of the television watching the Today show. My brother was upstairs playing video games, as usual. I walked over to him and gave him a big hug, telling him how much I loved him and asking him where his jacket was.
“It’s under the bed,” he answered, laughing. “Go ahead and wear it.”
At 12:15, I heard the sound of an engine coming down our street. I quickly walked outside and climbed aboard my father’s truck. The radio was tuned to a sports station and my father was singing along with the song playing.
“Let’s go, son,” he called.
***
As we neared my house, my father glanced at me and said, “Are you ready for this?”
“Yes,” I replied. “This is what I need to do.”
I thought he understood what I needed to do, so I reached out and grabbed his hand. He pulled out his cell phone and started dialing.
Then, just as the phone began ringing, I jumped off the passenger side of the car and ran through the snow toward the front porch.
My mother rushed out of the house and stood frozen in place. I didn’t hesitate; instead, I kept running straight toward her, yelling, “Mom! Mom! Help! Someone has kidnapped me!”
She froze again and then turned to face the truck as if she’d seen a ghost. When she finally came to life, my mother screamed and ran back inside the house, slamming the door shut behind her.
I watched as the truck pulled away and headed toward downtown. As soon as it was gone from sight, I dashed into the house and took off the Santa suit. My brother was standing by my parents’ bed watching TV, but he didn’t notice anything strange. He was completely engrossed in his show, which wasn’t surprising since he hardly ever paid attention to anything anyway.
I threw on my jacket and went downstairs. My parents were in the kitchen talking to a man dressed in a Santa Claus outfit, who seemed very surprised to see me.
“What are you doing here? How did you get inside?” he asked. “Why don’t you come with me? I’ll take you home.”
He opened the back door of his sleigh and I followed him inside. Then we drove to the north end of town where he handed me a bag full of presents. My mother was standing beside our chimney and she was wearing another Santa suit.
“Where is he?” she shouted excitedly, pointing at me. “That’s my boy!”
The man looked at me and laughed. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, “but I can’t let you bring him back until Christmas morning. He has to stay here now.”
Then my mother burst into tears.
“What’s wrong, sweetie?” my mother cried. “Don’t cry. We’re going to have a wonderful time together and then we’ll go home and open up all these wonderful presents.”
But I couldn’t stop crying. I knew I couldn’t go home. That’s why I’d run away in the first place. If I had told my parents about my plan, they would have stopped me before I went through with it. Now I was too far from home, so there was no way for me to get back. All I wanted was to tell my mom how much I loved her and thank her for always being there for me, even when I didn’t deserve it.
“It’s okay,” the man said gently to my mother. “Everything will work out.”
“No, it won’t,” I cried. “Nothing’s going to be okay!”
“You know,” he said, “I don’t want you to spend Christmas alone tonight. Why don’t I give you two a ride to your house and bring you back here tomorrow?”
My mother shook her head violently. “Oh no,” she cried. “I’m not leaving here without him.”
He nodded, smiled, and winked at my mother before turning toward me. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Let’s go.”
I looked at my mother, trying to make eye contact, and then I closed my eyes tightly.
“Wait! Please don’t leave me here!” I called out. “Please!”
***
When we arrived at my house, my father and brother were sitting on the couch watching television.
“Hello?” I called, hoping that someone would answer. But the house was empty, silent except for the sound of a TV coming from somewhere upstairs.
I tried to call out again but nothing happened.
So, I opened the bag full of presents and took everything out. There were so many different things inside—all wrapped in festive red paper with a silver ribbon tied around them—and it took me hours to figure out how to open them all. By the time I was done, the sun had begun to set and everyone else had gone to bed. It was dark outside, and the only light was the moon shining through my bedroom window.
I sat in the middle of my room looking down at all the gifts, wondering whether or not I should just wait until morning and open them all then. But I knew what my parents would do if they caught me opening presents early. They would probably ground me from all my Christmas celebrations, including the one that night, and tell me that Santa didn’t exist anymore.
But what was the point? I knew Santa didn’t exist, and I also knew my parents were right about me. I had been a horrible kid this year—so selfish and mean-spirited. So why shouldn’t I take advantage of the fact that I wasn’t going to have any more Christmas mornings for a while? After all, it was only fair.
I started with some of the easier presents—like the books, toys, games, clothes, and candy—and then moved on to bigger items like the bike, basketball hoop, and video games. Then I got out all the special treats like cookies and cakes, ice cream, chocolates, and fudge.
I ate a piece of cake with my fingers because I didn’t have any forks or spoons. Then I opened up a box that held the last few gifts: a pair of black boots, a leather jacket, and a big bottle of cologne.
I pulled each present out of the bag until there were no more left to open. And then I stared at the floor for a long time, thinking about the past couple of years and wondering where I went wrong.
Eventually, I heard a car pull into the driveway. The tires made an awful crunching noise as they rolled across the gravel on the road and came to a stop in front of the garage. My parents weren’t the type to use their cell phones to call home, so that meant they’d driven from town.
I stood up and walked over to the window, hoping to see their faces peeking through the front door but they did not appear. Instead, I saw a man who looked a lot like my dad walking up our front steps carrying a large black bag.
“Hello?” I called, hoping he would hear me.
“Go back to bed,” he told me. “Everything will be fine.”
He turned around and walked into the house. I followed him inside and he led me to the dining room table. There was a single chair there waiting for me.
“What’s this for?” I asked him, sitting down in the seat.
“For you to sit in until morning,” he replied.
I looked around at all the other chairs in the room and decided to wait another hour before I fell asleep.
I waited an hour, which turned into two, three, four…
Finally, when I couldn’t stand the silence anymore, I got up from the chair and began to walk out of the dining room. But before I reached the living room, I heard footsteps coming from behind me.
When I turned around, I could see my mom standing in the doorway wearing her pajamas, holding her robe tight around her waist. Her hair was messy, and she looked tired. She was holding a small white candle in both hands, and it was glowing brightly in the darkness.
She walked slowly towards me, still clutching the candle. And then she placed it gently on top of a gift box sitting on the end of the table next to me.
“It’s late and Santa doesn’t visit children who aren’t asleep,” she explained, smiling at me.
My mom lit the candles in all the other rooms as well, leaving the kitchen without turning on any lights. The whole house was completely filled with a soft orange glow from the Christmas tree, and it felt like we were living inside the world’s largest gingerbread cookie.
After my mother finished lighting all the candles, she brought me to my bedroom and tucked me into bed. When I asked her why she didn’t come to the living room, she told me that she thought it would be best if I slept alone tonight. She said I needed my rest after all the bad things I’d done during the past year. And then she kissed me goodnight, gave me a quick hug, and left the room.
I lay awake on my bed for hours, staring up at the ceiling and listening to the quiet noises of the house.
***
At seven o’clock on Christmas morning, I opened all my gifts from my parents. The biggest surprise was that they weren’t mad at me. In fact, my mom hugged me tightly, telling me how proud she was of me. That made me feel guilty all over again.
So I spent the day eating too many sweets and trying to figure out where I went wrong. Was I just born this way? Did my parents do something to me when I was little? Or was it just because I never had any friends?
All I know is that I was a really mean person for the past year. And now I can’t help feeling like a complete jerk for being so selfish. I wish there was some magic switch I could flip to turn myself off again. But I don’t even know where I am anymore, let alone what I should be doing to make things right with everyone I love.
The thing that bothers me most is that I’m pretty sure I’ve been bad all my life, ever since I was little, and nobody has ever noticed it before. And now that it’s finally become obvious to everyone around me, maybe it would have helped if someone had taken the time to point it out sooner.
Maybe that’s why people always say that Christmas is magical. It’s because the season brings out the best and the worst in people. You get together with your family and spend time laughing and having fun. At least, that’s what I used to think. But then you also get to see all the things about yourself that you hate. And you realize there are parts of you that haven’t changed at all.
But even though everything seems hopeless, I’ll try to make some resolutions for the New Year: to start acting nicer, to be more patient with others, and to stop lying to myself.
I also plan to give up sugar, because I’m afraid that my obsession with cookies may have led me down a very dark path.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last year, it’s that you can’t hide from the things inside your heart forever. Sooner or later, they’re going to find a way to make themselves known, no matter what you do.
And that’s why, even though this Christmas wasn’t perfect, I think it was a turning point for me. Maybe next year will be better.
At least I hope it will.
Because I really don’t want to be bad any longer.
I’m Sorry, Mommy…
I’m sorry I broke your favorite flower vase!
I’m sorry I tore the wallpaper!
Please forgive me!
That’s what I’ve always told my mom whenever she finds something broken in our house—and she usually does!
When I was little, I loved making big messes. I couldn’t stand it when my toys were clean and orderly. I wanted them piled up in huge heaps, scattered all over the floor, covered with sticky fingerprints, and smeared with paint.
My mom hated finding my crayon scribbles on her coffee table, on the wall above the refrigerator, and even on the ceiling above the dining room table.
She used to say that my toys looked like a bunch of old socks thrown in a pile. And she complained about the smell that came from my dirty clothes hamper (especially after I played with the mud puddles outside).
But that’s not all my mother had to complain about. My dad hated coming home late from work, only to find the dinner table still set for five—when we lived in our tiny apartment. He hated the way the bathroom smelled after I took a bath and then used his toothbrush.
And he absolutely hated cleaning out the cat’s litter box each day, because every time he tried to do it, he stepped in a clump of kitty poop.
He especially hated waking up early on Sundays, when he knew I had already eaten breakfast with my mom and brother. Because when he sat down to eat with us, all three of us ended up eating at different times, leaving him sitting alone at the kitchen table until long after everyone else was finished.
But my father wasn’t the only one who complained. All of my teachers hated me. They said I talked too much, didn’t pay attention to what they were saying and asked too many questions. I remember one teacher called me “uncooperative” and another called me “rude.”
One even told my parents that he thought I might be a little bit crazy because whenever I got an answer wrong in class, I kept insisting that the answer was right.
Even my babysitter used to say that I was difficult to handle. Whenever I saw her, she would tell my mother all the ways I had disobeyed her instructions—even though it was just the same stuff I did at home. My parents started to wonder whether I was a bad seed.
One day, as usual, my mother found something broken in the house. This time it was my new toy, a plastic castle with four knights and two horses. She had bought it for me at the store on her lunch break, along with some other toys and stuffed animals, so I wouldn’t have to be bored on weekends.
It was a beautiful castle—with turrets and flags and a drawbridge. But when my mother opened the box, she discovered that the horse was missing its tail. The knight’s shield and sword were bent out of shape, and both of the horses’ legs were broken off.
As soon as my mom saw the mess she’d made, she burst into tears and cried for hours. She begged me to apologize, but I never did. Even when I was told that if I didn’t apologize, my toys wouldn’t get fixed, I still refused to say I was sorry. Instead, I promised to be good from now on and to try to behave like a normal kid.
But my mother wasn’t satisfied. When I went to bed that night, she told me I was being selfish. Then she said that if I ever broke anything again, she would take away all of my toys—not just the ones she had bought me.
That’s when I finally realized how serious my mother was about punishing me.
From that day on, my parents decided to keep all of my toys locked up in a secret place. Every time I misbehaved, they put my favorite dolls and stuffed animals in their room for safekeeping. They also kept all my books in their bedroom, so I could never read them by myself.
Whenever I asked to play with my friends, read a book, or go outside and play in the sandpit, my parents told me to wait until after supper—or they wouldn’t let me do it at all. That way they could make sure I didn’t cause any more trouble.
I didn’t like my new rules, and neither did my mother or father. It seemed like everything I touched ended up broken. My parents were getting sick of it, and they wondered why I couldn’t learn how to behave properly. But I still didn’t care.
The day before my ninth birthday, my mother woke me up early in the morning and told me to wash in cold water, because I had to go to school dressed as a princess for Halloween. I didn’t want to wear a dress to school, but I didn’t argue either. If I disobeyed, I’d only get in more trouble later. So I obediently got dressed in front of the mirror while my mom watched with a smile.
When I came downstairs, my mother handed me a bag full of candy for trick-or-treating, and said: “Happy Birthday, Sweetheart!”
My mother always had to give me special attention on my birthday, but this year felt different. I knew she really cared about me, and that made me feel happy inside. But my happiness didn’t last very long.
Just then, my dad burst through the door and yelled: “Where is my daughter?!?!” He ran over to where my mom was sitting on the sofa. Then he threw his arms around her neck and squeezed tight.
“She’s gone!” he shouted, looking around the living room frantically.
I stood frozen in place. I had no idea what he meant. What had happened? Had I done something bad? What had I forgotten? And where were my friends? My toys? And my books?!
“What do you mean?” my mom said.
Then it hit me.
My mother had been talking about me! She had been talking about the girl who lives at home. The girl who doesn’t know how to behave properly. The girl who breaks things and ruins people’s toys!
Suddenly, a horrible feeling started creeping up my back. For the first time since I was born, I began to cry…and cry…and cry.
The End