In a rare, late-night splurge, I buy everyone matching Christmas sweaters even though it is thirty degrees Celsius outside and the asphalt is melting on the road, and we all pose in front of the tree for photos, with the fire lit for effect in the background. Afterward my mother’s face stays beetroot red for the remainder of the day, which she spends most of with her head in the fridge, ostensibly planning the menu for Christmas Day itself. It occurs to me that I most likely won’t live to see another winter, therefore another open fire, so I sit and I watch it until it burns away to nothing but smoldering ashes.

We go to Carols by Candlelight in the park on a Friday night, where the sound of a thousand people singing “Silent Night” into an early evening sky has me weeping buckets. I set my mother and Kate off crying too, and everyone in our vicinity looks at us strangely, until they realize it is me, and then they are sympathetic. I lose count of how many people stop by to wish us well and to let me know I am in their prayers. I smile my thanks, but say nothing. I am past the angry days of questioning their God and have no desire to provoke them into an argument and attempted defense that they cannot prove, at least not to me. Nothing will make me change my mind now, and if that condemns me then so be it. I can’t pretend to believe in someone who allows this to happen to anyone, let alone small children.

On Christmas Eve we do something I have never done before but always wanted to. It’s a contradictory decision for me, because to do it I must go to church. And I live in fear that someone will say something that enrages me so much I won’t be able to control the vitriolic words I will want to say. But, if I did have a bucket list, this would most likely be on it. And so we don our finest and we go to Midnight Mass. Amanda doesn’t come. She thinks that if she crosses the threshold of a church she’ll most likely burst into spontaneous flames, given the amount of profanity and blasphemous lyrics in her songwriting, so she goes out with the band to get pissed and wreak her usual brand of havoc on the town instead.

As we go up the aisle, I make Mum and Kate walk in front of me. Dad follows behind, and I cling onto James’s arm. I avoid eye contact with anyone until we are in our seats. This church is more like the churches of my imagination. We have driven to the city to see it, which gave me the advantage of time to nap on the way. A priest in white-and-gold robes leads the service, and while I do tune out during the biblical speeches, using the time to study the people around me and the beautiful architecture of the building, there is something special about singing Christmas carols in a building that echoes. The voices of the choir can only be described as angelic, which is fitting, and their sweet tones bounce off the rafters and roll down the walls. I get chills and the hairs on my arms stick up. James holds my hand tightly throughout. All in all, it is a beautiful experience, and I am glad I did it.