That’s my lot in life – feeling lonely and sad during Christmas and New Year’s.
I have a friend I’ve known since childhood. His name is Jack. We went to the same school, and although life took us on different paths, we never lost touch.
Jack is a reserved person. He doesn’t like large gatherings, rarely visits others, and never invites anyone over.
Every year, as the festive season approaches, I invite him to spend Christmas with us, to clink glasses as Big Ben strikes midnight on New Year’s Eve. But he always politely declines.
— They’re not my celebrations, — he says. — I don’t find joy in them.
I found it hard to understand how anyone could dislike New Year’s – a time of miracles, gifts, laughter, and meeting loved ones.
But one day, after many years of silence, he shared the truth with me.
The truth he had tried to suppress for many years.
A childhood steeped in fear and alcohol.
Growing up, Jack didn’t know what cozy family celebrations were like.
His father drank.
No, he wasn’t just someone who’d have a drink or two in the evening. He was an alcoholic, someone who spent all his money on booze, coming home late and any day, be it a regular Tuesday or Christmas Eve, would torment his family.
Each evening turned into a nightmare.
— Stand up! — he’d bark as he entered the house. — You must watch as the master of the house eats his dinner!
Jack and his mother would stand by the table while his father ate with airs of importance.
Then he’d launch into his favorite speech:
— Money is dust! They’re to be spent for pleasure! New shoes?! Books?! You already go to school, no need to waste money on such nonsense!
He squandered everything down to the last penny.
When nothing was left, he’d move to the next phase:
— Hand it over, what are you hiding! I know you’ve got something!
Jack’s mother tried to save money—for her son’s notebooks, for food, or a small New Year’s gift.
But he took everything away.
He drank until he’d spent every last penny.
Christmas with no magic, New Year without hope.
Christmas at Jack’s house always 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 his father would return sober.
That maybe he’d bring something for the holiday table.
That maybe he’d say, “Merry Christmas” or “Happy New Year.”
But he came back late.
Always drunk.
Always reeking of alcohol.
Always with empty pockets.
Everything that was in the envelope with the New Year’s bonus, he’d leave at the pub.
And so it went, year after year.
When he passed away, nothing changed.
A lonely man with a heavy heart.
When Jack’s mother eventually passed too, he was left alone.
He realized he didn’t want a family.
Didn’t want celebrations.
Didn’t want any merriment.
He didn’t want to repeat his father’s fate.
Didn’t want to become a person who ruins someone else’s life.
Every year, while others laid tables, raised glasses, and exchanged gifts, Jack would leave.
He’d buy a ticket to another town, book a hotel, and sit alone in his room.
Or he’d go to the countryside, where he could listen to the crackling of logs in the fireplace and watch the fire.
There, by the hearth, he found the warmth he never knew in childhood.
There, in solitude, he felt somewhat free.
Only there could he breathe.
