Why I Cry Every Christmas | Teen Ink

Why I Cry Every Christmas

July 24, 2015
By Cassandra Adair BRONZE, Boynton Beach, Florida
Cassandra Adair BRONZE, Boynton Beach, Florida
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

Christmas morning of 2012, my dad came to pick up my brother and I from my mom’s house at 12 noon, just like it said in the divorce agreement. I brought most of my presents with me and showed my father the new perfume, the new pair of jeans, the new everything I had received. His old Impala creaked the whole way to his house and I sprayed my perfume because it always smelled weird in there.

We had an apartment big enough to fit the three of us, but small enough for it be an uncomfortable fit. We had moved from a two story house in a gated community that we lived in with my stepmom and my step siblings. My dad was in the process of another divorce, another expensive divorce. My stepmom said it was because he drank too much and he was a lunatic. He checked my phone and didn’t let me wear booty shorts at the age of fourteen so I agreed with that, despite it being far from the truth. I let him know I felt that way too. When he grounded me, I reminded him of the DUIs he had received. When he criticized my friends, I told him my bad friend choices were a result of him taking my brothers away from me. When he told me I was being sneaky, I asked him how he would know considering he is drunk all the time. It wasn’t true. He didn’t do anything. But I needed someone to blame, some reason why my life had become such a mess.

It smelled like Fabuloso instead of gingerbread or apple pie when we walked in. Dad had cleaned before we got there, and rather than be grateful that he cared, I was mad there was no good food waiting.  It was always so dark in the apartment. No matter how many blinds I opened, a black fog stayed. It was so quiet. In years past, my brother and I would come home to our stepbrothers shooting us with nerf guns and we would run outside to jump on our trampoline. There was a depressing darkness and a depressing silence.

Soon though, it didn’t matter that there was nothing in the fridge to eat or that we had no one to play with, I just wanted to open more presents. There were four presents underneath the tree that came up to my shoulder. I hadn’t helped decorate it. My father did it on his own one night probably with the company of a bottle of wine when no one was home. I got a “Backpack Bible” and a pair of plain, black flats. The shoes were ugly and I knew I would never wear them. The Bible was stupid and I knew I would never read it. Maybe if he had been a better husband, he wouldn’t be getting divorced, and he could afford to give us a good Christmas.

I looked at my dad with greedy eyes and open hands.

“Is this it?”

His eyes were red and puffy, I thought he might be drunk so I scoffed, took my crappy presents into my room, and shut the door. I know now that he had been crying and wishing that he wouldn’t disappoint me. He had.

Despite the number of times I have apologized for that day and apologized for the ungratefulness he didn’t even see, every Christmas, I cry. I cry because my daddy was broke and alone and I had made him feel as if he was not only failing as a husband but as a dad too. He gave me shoes to protect my feet and the only source of hope he knew, and I asked for more. And it is something that I have never forgiven myself for, something I never will.


The author's comments:

After my dad and my stepmom split up, we went through a very difficult time financially, emotionally, and as a family unit. I was experiencing a difficult time in my personal life, and as a result of my confusion and depression, had become an extremely selfish and self centered person. It was all about me. 

 

While my attitude on life has changed and my dad and I have an incredible relationship, it still hurts me to think back to the person I used to be. So rather than hide the ugly parts, I write about them. 


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