I'm
working myself to death and I'm reduced to tears every
day. Maybe if he took the time to look closely at me he'd
understand what I have to do for money.
I'm doing too much thinking to enjoy this evening.
I'm ruining my father's plans – his guest can tell I don't
feel like partying. I'm not bothered by my father's
disapproving looks, I've had enough of playing a part.
My mother does her best to fill the silent pauses. She's
bound to be worrying that I'll make some insolent or
nasty remark. My father's relying on my sister for
conversation, asking her an avalanche of questions about
school and her friends, bombarding her so she almost
doesn't have time to draw breath. But she's delighted
with the situation, feeling as if she's really being listened
to for once.
After an unbelievably copious supper, it's now time to
open our presents. My mother loves Christmas and
makes a point of respecting tradition. She's put a large
Christmas tree in the living room and arranged the
presents beneath it. And, like every year, she's also got
the whole crib out. No one in the family is a believer, not
even her, but she loves going along with the whole thing.
I know that in her heart of hearts she regrets not being
able to give us a wonderful Christmas with loads of
presents. So, almost as if she's compensating, she pushes
the boat out with the decorations. I adore my mother
and it really touches me how much trouble she goes to
to make sure we're both happy, not just at Christmas,
but all year round. She's a full-time broody hen, even
though she's always talked to us as she would an adult.
And her hard work pays off: seeing the sparkling tree and
the crib with its little figures makes me happy to be here
with her this evening.
No mountains of presents for us at Christmas – we're
used to getting just one. Mum always manages to find us
something that's particularly significant so that we forget
that it is just the one. My sister and I don't really put
much store by it all any more, but when we were little
we would die with envy when our school friends showed
off presents which looked like they were straight out of The Thousand and One Nights . Looking back, I can see
it was a normal reaction.
This year, more than any other, I'm not expecting
anything special. I haven't asked for one particular thing
because I've got such an overwhelming feeling that I need
everything. But 'everything' is out of reach for my
parents; it would be utopia.
So here I am opening the present labelled for me. I
slowly tear off the apple-green paper and find a pair of
high-heeled black shoes. I saw them in a shop with my
mum during the Toussaint bank holiday and I told her I
liked them. I would never have thought she'd go back
and buy them later. Even though I know he's had
nothing to do with choosing my present, I thank my
father from where I'm sitting. We don't kiss or hug.
I keep thinking about Manu. I haven't heard from him
since we split up. My parents were relieved to hear we'd
stopped living together; they've never really liked him
and think he's a snob. I think that, in my mother's eyes,
no one will ever be good enough for my sister and me.
If she only knew . . . She would definitely loathe Manu
all the more. But first she would cry for days on end, then
her sadness would turn to anger and she would try to
find a culprit. At first she would blame herself, then
Manu. If she found out everything he had made me pay
for while he was spending virtually none of his own
money, she would undoubtedly hold him responsible for
my prostitution. She would go absolutely wild with rage,
trying to find answers where there are none to be found.
Over time, the whole thing would just become a bad
memory and she would help me forget it, but she would
spend the rest of her life licking that wound, holding it
against herself for ever. No, she must never know.
The evening goes on quite peacefully, with no raised
voices or arguments. I decide to go up to my room
working myself to death and I'm reduced to tears every
day. Maybe if he took the time to look closely at me he'd
understand what I have to do for money.
I'm doing too much thinking to enjoy this evening.
I'm ruining my father's plans – his guest can tell I don't
feel like partying. I'm not bothered by my father's
disapproving looks, I've had enough of playing a part.
My mother does her best to fill the silent pauses. She's
bound to be worrying that I'll make some insolent or
nasty remark. My father's relying on my sister for
conversation, asking her an avalanche of questions about
school and her friends, bombarding her so she almost
doesn't have time to draw breath. But she's delighted
with the situation, feeling as if she's really being listened
to for once.
After an unbelievably copious supper, it's now time to
open our presents. My mother loves Christmas and
makes a point of respecting tradition. She's put a large
Christmas tree in the living room and arranged the
presents beneath it. And, like every year, she's also got
the whole crib out. No one in the family is a believer, not
even her, but she loves going along with the whole thing.
I know that in her heart of hearts she regrets not being
able to give us a wonderful Christmas with loads of
presents. So, almost as if she's compensating, she pushes
the boat out with the decorations. I adore my mother
and it really touches me how much trouble she goes to
to make sure we're both happy, not just at Christmas,
but all year round. She's a full-time broody hen, even
though she's always talked to us as she would an adult.
And her hard work pays off: seeing the sparkling tree and
the crib with its little figures makes me happy to be here
with her this evening.
No mountains of presents for us at Christmas – we're
used to getting just one. Mum always manages to find us
something that's particularly significant so that we forget
that it is just the one. My sister and I don't really put
much store by it all any more, but when we were little
we would die with envy when our school friends showed
off presents which looked like they were straight out of The Thousand and One Nights . Looking back, I can see
it was a normal reaction.
This year, more than any other, I'm not expecting
anything special. I haven't asked for one particular thing
because I've got such an overwhelming feeling that I need
everything. But 'everything' is out of reach for my
parents; it would be utopia.
So here I am opening the present labelled for me. I
slowly tear off the apple-green paper and find a pair of
high-heeled black shoes. I saw them in a shop with my
mum during the Toussaint bank holiday and I told her I
liked them. I would never have thought she'd go back
and buy them later. Even though I know he's had
nothing to do with choosing my present, I thank my
father from where I'm sitting. We don't kiss or hug.
I keep thinking about Manu. I haven't heard from him
since we split up. My parents were relieved to hear we'd
stopped living together; they've never really liked him
and think he's a snob. I think that, in my mother's eyes,
no one will ever be good enough for my sister and me.
If she only knew . . . She would definitely loathe Manu
all the more. But first she would cry for days on end, then
her sadness would turn to anger and she would try to
find a culprit. At first she would blame herself, then
Manu. If she found out everything he had made me pay
for while he was spending virtually none of his own
money, she would undoubtedly hold him responsible for
my prostitution. She would go absolutely wild with rage,
trying to find answers where there are none to be found.
Over time, the whole thing would just become a bad
memory and she would help me forget it, but she would
spend the rest of her life licking that wound, holding it
against herself for ever. No, she must never know.
The evening goes on quite peacefully, with no raised
voices or arguments. I decide to go up to my room
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