I was seven: A foster child’s memories of a true Christmas
Every person holds onto moments that they will never forget.
I have one such night. A night that has stayed with me for nearly 40 years.
But let me start from the beginning.
Born in captivity
I entered this world not in a cozy home, surrounded by loving parents, but behind the walls of a prison.
My mother was incarcerated while she was five months pregnant. My father abandoned her immediately upon her arrest and never returned to our lives. He didn’t care if she lived or if his son was born.
My mother was of mixed heritage, half English and half Romani, working as an accountant in a food processing factory. She was accused of embezzling a large sum of money, but no evidence was ever found, nor the money itself.
For several months, I lived with her in her cell while she nourished me. Then, I was transferred to a mother-and-baby home, awaiting adoption.
But no one ever wanted to take me in.
When I was three, my mother passed away. I don’t even remember her face.
After her death, I was moved to an orphanage.
I try not to think about my life there.
Yet, there is one moment that I revisit time and again.
The first true Christmas night
I was seven when a family took me in for Christmas Eve.
I didn’t understand why they chose to invite me. Perhaps they felt pity, or maybe they wanted to do a good deed for the holidays.
But at that moment, I didn’t think about it.
I had stumbled into a fairy tale.
Before this, I had never seen Father Christmas. I had never watched television. I had never eaten so many sweets.
They sat me at the festive table and then tucked me into bed.
But at midnight, they woke me.
“Come here,” said the hostess, leading me into the living room.
I froze at the threshold.
Before me stood a large Christmas tree, adorned with countless garlands and ornaments. It sparkled and shimmered in every colour, appearing magical to me.
I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
I stood there, much like one of the children in a Charles Dickens novel, witnessing a wonder for the first time.
And then something even more extraordinary occurred.
A real Father Christmas entered the room.
He smiled at me, extended a bag, and said, “This is for you.”
I received my first Christmas gift—a toy, a warm woollen scarf, and mittens.
I was overjoyed.
Return to reality
The next morning, the magic continued.
I savoured sweets, watched as the whole family exchanged gifts, and listened to songs on the television.
I felt like I had become a part of this world.
But as evening approached, I was taken back to the orphanage.
Once again, I found myself among cold walls, surrounded by children who received no gifts, alongside caregivers weary from our rambunctiousness.
Yet I was no longer the same.
I knew there was another world out there. A world where happiness existed.
Years passed…
Now I am an adult. I have a family and two wonderful sons.
But Christmas will always be the most significant holiday for me.
Every year, I buy a Christmas tree—the biggest one I can find. Perhaps it’s because I want to recreate that moment when I first beheld the magic.
I still keep the red scarf that Father Christmas gave me back then.
An unanswered question
My father never came looking for me. Not once did he try to find out what had become of me.
And I think of my mother with warmth.
In my heart, I always refer to her as my Blessed Mother.
And I can’t help but ask myself: Was she guilty?
Or was she merely a victim of someone else’s sins?
