I was 7: A Foster Child’s Memories of a True Christmas
Every individual holds onto moments in their memory that never fade away.
I have such a night. A night that has remained with me, even now that I am nearly 40.
But let me start from the beginning.
Born into Hardship
I entered this world not in a cozy home, surrounded by loving parents, but outside the grim walls of a prison.
My mother was incarcerated when she was five months pregnant. My father abandoned her immediately after her arrest and has never been a part of our lives since. He didn’t care whether she was alive or whether his son was born.
Mum was of mixed English and Romani heritage, working as an accountant in a canning factory. She was accused of stealing a substantial sum of money. However, no evidence nor the money was ever found.
I spent several months in a cell with her, where she managed to care for me. Eventually, I was moved to a mother and baby home, where children await placement for adoption.
Yet, no one ever chose to take me in.
When I was three, my mother passed away. I cannot even remember her face.
After her death, I was placed in an orphanage.
I try not to think about life there.
However, there is one moment I find myself revisiting time and again.
The First Real Christmas Night
I was seven when a family took me in for Christmas Eve.
I had no idea why they chose to invite me specifically. Perhaps they felt sorry for me, or perhaps they wanted to do a good deed for the holidays.
But at that age, I didn’t ponder such things.
I found myself in a fairy tale.
Before this, I had never seen Father Christmas. I had never watched television. I had never eaten so many sweets.
They fed me at their festive table and then tucked me in for the night.
Yet, at midnight, they woke me up.
“Come here,” the lady of the house said, leading me into the living room.
I froze at the threshold.
Before me stood a magnificent Christmas tree, adorned with numerous garlands and ornaments. It sparkled and glimmered in so many colors that it seemed magical.
I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
I stood mesmerized, like a child in a Dickens novel, who had just been shown a wonder.
Then something even more astonishing happened.
The true Father Christmas entered the room.
He smiled at me, reached into his sack, and said, “This is for you.”
I received my first Christmas gift—a toy, a warm woolly scarf, and mittens.
I was overjoyed.
Return to Reality
The magic continued the next morning.
I savored sweets, watched as the whole family exchanged presents, and listened to carols from the television.
It felt as if I had become a part of this world.
But as evening approached, I was driven back to the orphanage.
I found myself once again among those cold walls, surrounded by children who received no gifts and caregivers tired of our antics.
Yet I was not the same as I had been.
I knew that somewhere out there existed another world. A world where happiness could be found.
Years Passed…
Now I am an adult. I have a family and two wonderful sons.
But Christmas will forever remain the most significant holiday for me.
Every year, I buy a tree. The biggest one I can find. Perhaps because I want to recreate that very moment when I first beheld that magic.
I still keep the red scarf that Father Christmas gave me back then.
An Unanswered Question
My father never sought me out. Not once did he attempt to find out what had happened to me.
And I remember my mother with warmth.
In my heart, I always call her the Blessed Mother.
I can’t help but ask myself: Was she to blame?
Or was she merely a victim of others’ sins?
