I was 7: An Orphan’s Memories of a True New Year
Each person carries with them memories 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 into Confinement
I entered this world not in a warm home filled with love, but beyond the walls of a prison.
My mother was incarcerated when she was five months pregnant. My father abandoned her upon her arrest and, since then, has never reappeared in our lives. He didn’t care whether she was alive or if his son had been born.
Mum was of mixed English and Romani descent and worked as an accountant in a packaging factory. She was accused of stealing a large amount of money. However, no evidence was ever found, nor the money itself.
For several months, I lived in her cell while she managed to feed me. Eventually, I was transferred to a mother and baby home while awaiting adoption.
But no one wanted to take me in.
When I was three, my mother passed away. I can’t even picture her face.
After her death, I was moved to a children’s home.
I try not to dwell on life there.
However, there is one moment I find myself returning to repeatedly.
The First True New Year’s Eve
I was seven when a family took me in for New Year’s Eve.
I didn’t understand why they chose to invite me. Perhaps they felt pity, or maybe they wished to do something kind for the holiday.
But I didn’t think about that then.
I had stepped into a fairytale.
Until that point, I had never seen Father Christmas. I had never watched television. I had never eaten so many sweets.
They fed me at the festive table, then tucked me into bed.
But at midnight, they woke me up.
“Come here,” the matriarch said, leading me into the living room.
I froze at the threshold.
Before me stood a magnificent Christmas tree, adorned with countless decorations and twinkling lights. It sparkled in every colour and appeared utterly enchanting.
I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
I stood there, much like a child from an old tale witnessing a wonder for the first time.
Then something even more astonishing happened.
A true Father Christmas entered the room.
He smiled at me, held out a sack, and said, “This is for you.”
I received my first Christmas gift—a toy, a warm woolen scarf, and mittens.
I was overjoyed.
Return to Reality
The magic lingered the next morning.
I indulged in sweets, watched as the family exchanged gifts, and listened to carols on the television.
I felt as though I had become a part of their world.
But as evening approached, I was taken back to the children’s home.
I found myself once again surrounded by cold walls, amongst children who received no gifts, and caregivers weary of our chaos.
Yet, I didn’t feel the same as before.
I knew that somewhere there existed another world. A world where happiness could be found.
Years Passed…
Now I am an adult. I have a family of my own and two wonderful sons.
But New Year’s will forever remain the most significant holiday to me.
Each year, I buy a Christmas tree—the largest one I can find. Perhaps because I want to recreate that moment when I first beheld that magic.
I still keep the red scarf Father Christmas gave me all those years ago.
An Unanswered Question
My father never sought me out. He never attempted to find out what had become of me.
Yet I think of my mother fondly.
Deep down, I always refer to her as my Blessed Mother.
And I continue to ask myself: Was she to blame?
Or was she merely a victim of someone else’s sins?
