Written 18 December
“Have yourself a merry little Christmas” was playing over the stereo.
We were sat up at the dinner table, and my mum had gone all in. Turkey, pigs in blankets, parsnips, carrots, potatoes, stuffing, bread sauce. You get the impression.
Crackers had been pulled, though the hats lay neglected, left inside the tube, or otherwise sitting unretrieved on the floor, and we had all tucked in without saying much. A disconcertingly cheery “tuck in” from my mum, a grunt of acknowledgement from my dad.
I don't know whether it was the song that set her off. It had probably been simmering all day. My dad was in one of his moods, which guaranteed tension. But during the opening verse of the festive classic, I noticed tears streaming down my mums face.
My dad looked disgusted. He carried on eating his sprouts, staring at the wall as if my mum crying was something indecent. Chewing with purpose. Lips pursed. My older brother carried on concentrating on his plate.
But the crying didn't stop, in fact she began openly weeping. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how I could make her feel better. I mean, I was nine for Christ's sake.
It all got too much for my brother. He left the table without a word.
That's when my dad started shouting. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. At least 3 of them. I'd never heard that word before. I opened my mouth to yell back at him, but no sound came out. He raged and shouted as my mum cried louder and more hysterically.
My dad got to his feet, picking up his still half full plate and threw it at her, missing by inches, but splattering her face with the Christmas dinner she had agonized over.
Silence.
Never ending silence.
Except.
Except.
“Through the years we all will be together, if the fates allow.”
There were a few more tough Christmases after that. Splitting my time between a mother I was mostly just worried about and a father who I only saw because some court told me I had to.
I've had some nice Christmases. Really nice ones. With my daughter and my wife. With her parents. But that day was a drop of poison. The good days don't matter, only that bad one. I'll never enjoy Christmas the way others do.
But that's okay. My father died a miserable man, and I won't. My mother is almost too timid for this world, my wife isn't and my daughter won't be.