Aria felt ambivalent about Christmas. For her, and so many of the other people in her position, there were two sides to the story of Christmas in their lives. In one way, Aria could feel what might have been. She could see herself as a child in a different kind of home. It was as if she were looking through a window onto that life she never had. The glass was partially frosted. Inside she could see her younger self with her mother, Lucy, looking healthy, with a responsible and gentle man who took care of them by her side. She could see a younger sister or brother there too. The family dog was wearing a Christmas sweater. They were reading The Night Before Christmas on the couch in front of a giant Christmas tree. Every ornament on the tree was glamorized by the creamy glow of the Christmas lights. She had memorized every one of them. She had felt the nostalgia of taking each ornament out of its wrapping with this imaginary family each year. She could taste the thickness of hot cocoa against the roof of her mouth.

Every smell associated with Christmas contained a story of its own, a thousand years of festivity. Aria loved those smells. She loved the idea that the notes of each Christmas carol had the potential to restore those positive memories and those feelings of love and belonging to full bloom. She loved the look on the children’s faces, overwhelmed with the magic of presents appearing in their stockings. She loved the way that people seemed to be stricken with a sudden sense of kindness during Christmas. Instead of fighting their way through the crowd, people were smiling and making way for each other. They were wishing each other a happy holiday. Aria imagined she would love the tradition of Christmas if that tradition had been anything good.

But the other side of the story of Christmas in Aria’s life was the reality: that Christmas wasn’t good. It was watching her mother draw a Christmas tree on a paper with crayons because it was all she could afford to do. It was the time of the year that Lucy was most aware she couldn’t give her daughter the life she wanted to give her. It was watching her mother struggle to buy or steal her one toy each year. It was playing with that toy by herself, watching Lucy drown away that feeling of shortcoming with a needle. It was the fuckedup way the foster parents or staff at the group homes tried to make them enjoy a holiday designed specifically to celebrate the very thing that all of them had lost.