Such is my fate—lonely and melancholy during Christmas and New Year
I have a friend I’ve known since childhood. His name is Jack. We attended the same school, and though life took us on different paths, we never lost touch.
Jack is an introvert, not fond of large gatherings, seldom visits others, and never invites anyone over.
Every year, as the holidays draw near, I invite him to join us—celebrate Christmas at the dinner table, raise glasses as Big Ben strikes midnight on New Year’s Eve. But he always politely declines.
“These aren’t my holidays,” he says. “I find nothing joyful in them.”
It was hard for me to comprehend how anyone could dislike New Year’s Eve—a time of miracles, gifts, laughter, and reunions with loved ones.
But one day, after years of silence, he revealed the truth to me.
A truth he had tried to bury for many years.
A childhood steeped in fear and alcohol
As a child, Jack never knew the warmth of family holidays.
His father drank.
No, he wasn’t just a man who indulged in a drink or two in the evenings. He was an alcoholic, someone who spent all his money on alcohol, who came home late and, whether it was an ordinary Tuesday or Christmas Eve, began tormenting his family.
Every evening became a trial.
“Stand up!” he’d command upon entering the house. “You must see how the master of the house dines!”
Jack and his mother would stand by the table while his father ate his dinner with a sense of importance.
And then he’d launch into his favorite speech:
“Money is dust! It’s only for pleasure! What new shoes?! What books?! You go to school, no need to waste it on nonsense!”
He spent everything down to the last penny.
When nothing was left, he’d move to the next phase:
“Give it here, what are you hiding! I know you have something!”
Jack’s mother tried to save money—for Jack’s notebooks, food, a small New Year’s gift.
But he took everything from them.
He drank until he spent every last penny.
Christmas without miracles, New Year without hope
Every holiday at Jack’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 the father would come home sober.
That maybe he’d bring something for the holiday table.
That he’d suddenly say, “Merry Christmas” or “Happy New Year.”
But he came home late.
Always drunk.
Always reeking of alcohol.
Always with empty pockets.
Everything that was in the holiday bonus envelope, he left at the pub.
And so it continued, year after year.
And when he died, nothing changed.
A solitary man with a heavy heart
When Jack’s father was gone, his mother lived for several more years.
And then she too passed away.
He was left alone.
And he realized he didn’t want a family.
Didn’t want holidays.
Didn’t want any merriment.
He didn’t want to follow in his father’s footsteps.
Didn’t want to become someone who ruined another person’s life.
Every year, when everyone set their tables, raised their glasses, exchanged gifts, Jack would leave.
He took a ticket to another city, rented a hotel room, and stayed by himself.
Or he’d head to the mountains, where he could hear the crackling of logs in the fireplace and gaze into the flames.
There, by the fire, he found warmth he hadn’t known in childhood.
There, in solitude, he felt somewhat free.
Only there could he truly breathe.
