Charity Begins at Home
But whose home, and do you really want it?
You don’t live through 52 holiday seasons and not have stories. But you also don’t live my life and not have more stories than most.
It’s been quite a ride, from the unwanted infant of a deceased mother to adopted, mixed-up, mixed-race kid to gymnastic and track champ to odd little nerd. Then, add in abused spouse, poverty-stricken single mother of 3 boys, to mature university student, lawyer and then writer.
And through it all, the Christmas tree went up and Santa came year after year. But one year sticks out. It was 2000.
Times were particularly tough. My boys were 10, 8 and 6. Their father and I split a few months prior. One too many slaps, one too many side chicks. I snapped and threw him out.
He ran right to the side chick, a cute girl with an 8-year-old son of her own. He moved right in.
I had just left my job at the coffee shop for a better position at a local call centre. The call centre had health benefits and tuition reimbursement. I had money set aside for the holidays. I always tried to make Christmas special for my boys. It was the one day, with the help of my Mom, that they weren’t the poor kids.
