I knew how sprawling Zulu families could be. The likelihood of Zodwa having no remaining family at all was slim but I never commented on it. Instead, I gave her the cash value of the ticket along with books that she’d expressed an interest in as her graduation gift.

When I suggested to Ruth the week before that we include Zodwa in our Christmas-lunch plans, she’d waved it off.

“I’m sure a young girl like her would much rather spend her vacation time with her friends than with a bunch of wrinklies and a child.”

While Ruth had a point, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d missed something. “Has something happened between the two of you that I don’t know about?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. You’ve just seemed a bit . . . wary of each other lately. You didn’t have a fight or anything?”

“Of course not. Don’t be silly. I just think the girl needs a life outside the three of us.”

“Fair enough.” And so I’d left it.

Ruth and Mandla had put up a Christmas tree on December 1. It was ridiculously extravagant and looked like it was going to topple over at any moment.

“It may be the only Christmas he ever has,” Ruth had said when I’d raised my eyebrows at the excess. “I want to make it a special one.”

It was the first time I’d heard her acknowledge that Mandla’s illness was a death sentence.

On Christmas Day and my fifty-eighth birthday, Riaan disappeared into the bathroom to dress as Father Christmas so he could hand out all the gifts that were under the tree. When he emerged a few minutes later, Mandla wanted nothing at all to do with him. The white-bearded man in a red suit who kept yelling “Ho, ho, ho” scared him.

Still, Ruth insisted on keeping up the charade of merriment. “Look who it is! It’s Father Christmas. And look at all the presents he brought you!” She oohed and aahed over each gift that bore Mandla’s name, waving the shiny parcels at him in an attempt to engage him.

Despite that, Mandla only opened five of his presents before losing interest. He was still coughing badly and I was beginning to worry about him as much as Ruth did. He was listless and wore a glazed expression I’d never seen before. “Do you think he’s feeling okay?” I asked Ruth.

“He’ll be fine. The antibiotics just need time to kick in. Let’s open our gifts,” she said with forced cheer.