That’s my fate – lonely and somber during Christmas and New Year’s Eve.
I have a friend named James, whom I’ve known since childhood. We went to the same school, then life took us on different paths, but we never lost touch.
James is a reserved person, not one for large gatherings. He doesn’t visit others or invite anyone over.
Every year, as the holidays approach, I invite him over to spend Christmas with us and raise a glass as Big Ben strikes midnight on New Year’s Eve. But he always politely declines.
“They’re not my holidays,” he says. “I don’t find anything joyful in them.”
It was hard for me to grasp how someone couldn’t love New Year’s – a time of miracles, gifts, laughter, and family gatherings.
But once, after many years of silence, he revealed the truth to me.
The truth he had tried to bury for so long.
A childhood steeped in fear and alcohol
As a child, James didn’t know what it was like to have warm family celebrations.
His father drank.
No, he wasn’t just a man who had a drink or two in the evenings. He was an alcoholic who spent all the money on alcohol, who returned home late and, whether it was a regular Tuesday or Christmas Eve, would start tormenting his family.
Every evening turned into an ordeal.
“Stand up!” he commanded as he walked into the house. “You should see how the master of the house has his dinner!”
James and his mother would stand by the table as their father ate his meal with an air of importance.
Then he gave his favorite lecture:
“Money is dust! It’s meant for pleasure! What new shoes? What books? You’re going to school anyway, no need to spend on nonsense!”
He spent everything to the last penny.
When there was nothing left, he would move to the next phase of his routine:
“Hand it over! I know you have it hidden!”
James’s mother tried to save some money – for his notebooks, for food, for some small New Year’s present.
But he took everything.
He drank until he had spent every last penny.
A Christmas without magic, a New Year without hope
Every holiday at James’ house looked the same.
On the table: a few dried apples, a couple of sandwiches, and a jar of pickles.
Mother and son sat in silence.
They waited.
Hoped that maybe their father would come home sober.
That maybe he would bring something for the festive table.
That maybe he would say, “Merry Christmas” or “Happy New Year.”
But he always returned late.
Always drunk.
Always reeking of alcohol.
Always with empty pockets.
Everything from the Christmas bonus envelope was left at the pub.
Year after year, it remained unchanged.
And when he passed away, nothing changed.
A solitary man with a heavy heart
When James’s father was gone, his mother lived on a few more years.
Then she too passed away.
James was left alone.
And he realized he didn’t want a family.
Didn’t want holidays.
Didn’t want any kind of joy.
He didn’t want to follow in his father’s footsteps.
He didn’t want to become someone who would ruin another life.
Every year, when others set their tables, took out glasses, exchanged gifts, James left.
He’d buy a ticket to another city, check into a hotel, and sit alone in his room.
Or he’d go to the mountains, where he could listen to the crackling of wood in the fireplace and gaze into the fire.
There, by the hearth, he found the warmth he never knew in his childhood.
There, in solitude, he felt a bit of freedom.
Only there could he truly breathe.
