The First Christmas

**Trigger Warning**

Mentions moments of child S/A

The story is based on my PTSD.

I was sitting on the carpeted floor of my grandmother’s house and I could see all the joy on everyone’s faces. People were smiling, laughing, and enjoying each other’s company. There was wrapping paper and boxes scattered across the floor. The TV was playing soft Christmas music. Snacks were set up nicely on the kitchen table, the seals had already been broken. Vanilla-scented candles were lit. Everyone was happy. Even though everyone was happy, there was still a sadness that would hang over us; my reasons being different than theirs. It’s hard being sad with a group of people but for the opposite reason than the others. 

My grandfather was a favored man. He played Santa since before I was born. Everyone knew him and every year, hundreds of people would bring their kids to the little red shack in the Plaza to meet my grandparents — Mr. and Mrs. Claus. Everyone loved him and his wife. They have ridden on the back of firetrucks, being ‘escorted’ to meet the kids. What people didn’t know was what a disgusting man he was. Since I could remember, he would be too handsy and I remember not wanting to be around him. 

By age 12, I began to grow into a woman’s body. He always asked for a hug and played it off as ‘grandparent wanting to hug grandchild’. With the hugs he’d give me, his hands often wandered and wrapped around to touch the side of my chest. In true Santa fashion, he wanted me to sit on his lap a lot, and when I’d stand back up I would cover my rear end with my hands to prevent the unwanted pinches. 

As we can agree, he was a disgusting man and I was happy when he suddenly died. However, he wasn’t gone. Pictures of him as Santa with children hang around the house. My grandmother pointed out his urn with his ashes, sitting atop the mantel above the fireplace. What is worst for me is the people who know. Those who know what happened, including close family members, acted supportive, but still sent their kids to see him. They still tell the happy stories. They still talk lovingly of him. What do I get out of that? Then I was expected to join the conversations and talk about what I remember most about him. How do I not ruin the mood? I lie. I say the words they want to hear with the expression they want to see on my face. 

We left for home and that was when my mom asked,

“Why were you so quiet? You didn’t join in any conversations and those you did join in, it seemed like you forced yourself.”

“It’s just hard seeing everyone love and miss the man I hate.” I looked out the window and watched the trees pass by in a black blur. It was hard sitting there, feeling like no one shared my feelings. It was hard knowing where his ashes were. It was hard looking at my beloved grandmother and not seeing the pictures of him with countless children, hanging on the wall above her. 

My mom apologized to me and we rode the rest of the way home with the only sound being the Christmas music on the radio. In reality, I’m not mad at her. She has been nothing but supportive and has done everything she can to help me. The problem was everyone else. I had felt bad being grumpy with my mom. She was just trying to check in on me. 

The thing is, I know that my dad had a ‘father/son’ relationship. I know my grandma had over 50 years of a loving ‘husband/wife’ lifestyle. I know my brother got to have a ‘grandfather/grandson’ relationship. I also know that letting the world know what happened could potentially ruin the good memories that people had with him. I can’t bring myself to destroy someone else’s memories of a long relationship.

After we had gotten home, I apologized to my mom for being grumpy and it was really a moment where I needed my mom. Late at night, or early morning, my mom and I were both pretty tired as I had let out my sorrow. We said ‘goodnight’ and we went to our bedrooms to go to sleep. I couldn’t stop thinking and I remembered being told that when I feel that way, to just write. So I began to write in my journal. I thought that maybe if I wrote a happy story, I would have happy dreams. I like to write so I wrote.

~—~—~—~—~

“Kids! It’s time to get up!” I hear Mom shouting up the stairs. When I open my eyes, I remember that I am not in my own room. My family and I are on vacation in Vermont. Mom and Dad both grew up there but my 5-year-old brother and I were born in Texas. We had never even seen snow before, so Mom and Dad decided to take a vacation back to their home state to give us the chance to experience snow. 

My brother and I head down the stairs of our rental and into the kitchen. As we enter the kitchen, the smell of pancakes and sweet maple syrup fills our noses, and my brother and I excitedly make our way to the table. Mom serves Gavin and I our pancakes.

“Alright, guys. You know the maple syrup we get at home?” Dad asks Gavin and me and we nod our heads. “Well, this kind is different. It is real maple syrup that was made here in Vermont. Do you guys want to try some on your pancakes?” 

“Ooh! Yes, please!” We say. 

Mom brings over the syrup and helps Gavin put some on his pancakes and cuts them up for him. Then mom turns to me and asks, “Harper, would you like your pancakes cut too?”

“No, thank you. I can do it myself.” I said as Mom poured the maple syrup on my pancakes. Then, I carefully started cutting my pancakes, trying to mimic the way I’ve always seen Mom do it. The taste of the sweet syrup is different from what we are used to having. But, still, I love it and Gavin does too. 

After breakfast, Mom and Dad brought Gavin and me outside to build snowmen! We make our way outside where I breathe in the crispy cold winter air. Already, our cheeks and noses become flushed from the cold. Gavin and I take off, the snow crunches under our feet as we look for the perfect spot to make the snowmen. Unfortunately, the snowmen have to wait until tomorrow because we got distracted when it started snowing! 

“Gavin! Look! It’s snowing, look!” I shout. Gavin and I look up and watch the snow fall in silence. The beautiful snowflakes were drifting lazily through the air before covering the ground in a soft, white, glittery blanket. Everything sounds even more silent than usual and I can hear the soft patter of the snow finding home on the ground. 

“Whoah… It’s so pretty!” Gavin whispered quietly, his breath becoming visibly in the air. 

Mom said, “You think this is pretty? Just wait until tonight. The night makes the snow falling even more magical!” 

Gavin and I looked at each other in excitement before our attention was turned to the car pulling into our driveway. The doors of the car open and out steps our surprise visitors. 

“It’s Grammy and Grampy!” Gavin and I shout as we race into their warm embrace.”

~—~—~—~—~

When I was done writing, I was pretty happy with my story. I put my journal away to finally get ready for bed. I did my nightly routine of brushing my teeth and taking my meds, and I did some yoga to try and destress before sleeping. I got into bed, plugged in my phone, and turned off my lamp. I got comfortable and even had my favorite show playing on my dimmed TV. The volume was only on 4 so it wasn’t too distracting. Unfortunately, I dreamt the same dream I’d been having since my grandfather had suddenly passed away. 

~—~—~—~—~

I was sitting on the carpeted floor of my grandmother’s house and I could see all the joy on everyone’s faces. People were smiling, laughing, and enjoying each other’s company. There was wrapping paper and boxes scattered across the floor. The TV was playing soft Christmas music. Snacks were set on the kitchen table. Vanilla-scented candles were lit. Everyone was happy. My dad gets up and tells us with so much excitement and the twinkle he'd get in his eye when he is up to something, that he was going to go get our ‘last and biggest gift’. He leaves for a while and my brother and I are sitting on the carpet confused. Everyone is smiling with anticipation. I feel anxious. He walks back in and following behind is my grandfather. The first thing he wants is a hug. So I run.