That’s the way it is for me – alone and melancholy at Christmas and New Year
I have a friend I’ve known since childhood. His name is George. We went to the same school, and although life took us in different directions, we never lost touch.
George is an introverted person; he doesn’t enjoy large gatherings, doesn’t visit others, and never invites anyone to his place.
Every year, as the holidays approach, I invite him to join us for Christmas dinner and to raise a glass as Big Ben strikes midnight on New Year’s. But he always politely declines.
— These aren’t my holidays,” he says. — I don’t feel any joy in them.
I found it difficult to understand how someone could not love New Year’s – a time of magic, gifts, laughter, and reunions with loved ones.
But one day, after years of silence, he told me the truth.
The truth he had hidden for many years.
A childhood marred by fear and alcohol
As a child, George never experienced cozy family celebrations.
His dad drank.
Not just a person who had a drink or two in the evenings. He was an alcoholic, someone who spent all his money on alcohol, who came home late on any day, whether a regular Tuesday or Christmas Eve, and began to torment his family.
Every evening became a torture.
— Stand up! — he commanded upon entering the house. — You must watch the master of the house dine!
George and his mother would stand at the table while his father ate with an air of importance.
Then he’d start his favorite rant:
— Money is dust! They’re for having a good time! What new shoes?! What books?! You already go to school; no need to waste on such nonsense!
He squandered everything down to the last penny.
When there was nothing left, he proceeded to the next stage:
— Give it here, what are you hiding! I know you have some!
George’s mother tried to save money – for her son’s notebooks, for food, for a small New Year’s gift.
But he took everything.
He drank until he spent every last penny.
Christmas without magic, New Year’s without hope
Every holiday at George’s house was the same.
On the table – a few dried apples, a couple of sandwiches, a jar of pickles.
Mother and son sat in silence.
They waited.
Hoped that perhaps his dad would return sober.
Maybe bring something for the holiday table.
Perhaps say: “Merry Christmas” or “Happy New Year.”
But he always returned late.
Always drunk.
Always reeking of booze.
Always with empty pockets.
All the Christmas bonus he’d spent in the pub.
This went on year after year.
And when he died, nothing changed.
A lonely man with a heavy heart
After George’s father passed, his mother lived a few more years.
Then she too was gone.
He was left alone.
And realized he didn’t want a family.
Didn’t want holidays.
Didn’t want any kind of celebration.
He didn’t want to repeat his father’s fate.
Didn’t want to be someone who would ruin another’s life.
Every year, when everyone else was setting tables, getting out glasses, and exchanging gifts, George would leave.
He’d buy a ticket to another city, check into a hotel, and sit in the room alone.
Or he’d go to the mountains, where he could listen to the crackle of logs in the fireplace and gaze into the flames.
There, by the fire, he found the warmth he never knew in childhood.
There, in solitude, he felt at least a bit free.
Only there could he breathe.
