being left in the past

lessgift

There are festive seasons in life that pretend to come with light, laughter, and gentle hope, but in my memory they arrive wrapped in another form: the long, cold reminder that joy was something other people seemed to own. For us, Christmas was not a holiday; it was a performance, a long theater staged by families who had more than we did, offering their leftovers as if charity could disguise the truth beneath their manners. I remember the slow passing of time around those days, the way December seemed to stretch, as if the month itself refused to forgive or forget the things we went through.

Christmas always felt like a moment that other children were born prepared for. Their homes glowed. Their trees stood tall, dressed in ornaments that glittered. Their laughter came easily, without analysis. Meanwhile, ours came cautiously, like a borrowed sound. We worked with what others gave us, wearing leftover clothes that smelled of other homes. Some pieces still carried the perfume of their former owners, the faint scent of a life that was not ours. Sometimes those clothes came with missing buttons, torn hems, or a stubborn stain. But we wore them. Not because we wanted to, but because we didn’t have the luxury of options.

It was in one of those years, one of those cold, heavy Decembers, that my mother decided we would visit our nephew and cousin for the holiday. She needed a break from her life, a pause from whatever storm she was silently carrying. I admire her now for that decision, though at the time I could not understand it. As children, we rarely understand the fatigue of those who raise us, how they carry entire worlds behind their eyes, how they move through life with burdens that we only begin to comprehend when we grow older.

We traveled early that morning, walking through the dust and distant music of the neighborhood. Other families were already preparing their celebrations, meat sizzling on coal fires, loud voices calling out greetings, children running with energy we did not have. When we arrived at our relatives’ place, they welcomed us with the kind of warmth that comes only from the surface. Beneath their smiles, there was something thin and sharp, like glass waiting to break. They talked about family, about love, about unity, but their eyes had a strange calculation behind them, the kind people use when they want to measure how much of themselves they’re willing to give away. They gave us old clothes, again. Every piece handed to us felt like a reminder that we were the poor relations, the quiet ones from the background, the ones who should be grateful for whatever came our way. The clothes were folded neatly, which made the gesture appear thoughtful, but even as children, we could read the truth. Those garments had been chosen not with love, but with convenience. They were the things no longer needed, offered as if generosity had limits, and we were only deserving of its lowest tier. I remember looking at my siblings’ faces as they tried to be excited. Children are too honest; their eyes tell the truth even when their mouths try to obey the rule of gratitude. My siblings looked down at the clothes, their small fingers touching fabric that once belonged to someone who lived a different history. They were trying, truly trying, to pretend this was a joyful moment. But their smiles did not reach their eyes. They were thin, trembling things, like candle flames fighting the wind.

In that house, the air felt heavy, like a room full of memories that were not ours but still had the power to shape us. The adults spoke in tones that made us feel like we were burdens, like our visit was something they had agreed to but not embraced. Sometimes they whispered in corners, thinking we were too young to hear, but children have sharp ears when survival shapes their instincts. We heard the sighs. We heard complaints. We heard the hidden resentments in the cracks between their words.

And yet, we stayed. Because where else could we go?

There was a night, one that remains in my mind like a scar not fully healed. The electricity had gone out, as it often did, leaving the rooms coated in darkness. Only a lantern glowed weakly, its light trembling across the walls. In that dim glow, everything seemed larger: shadows stretched, silence deepened, and the weight of our small lives felt magnified. We sat together in that dark room, my siblings and I, listening to laughter from other rooms. Older children were playing, running, shouting, their bodies moving freely in ways ours could not. And then came the other kind of noise, the kind not meant for children, the kind that should never exist in a house pretending to be safe.

Childhood has a fragility adults often forget. It requires protection, grounding, and gentle instruction. But in that place, we learned lessons none of us should have learned. We learned that love can be fake. We learned that kindness can be conditional. And we learned that danger does not always come from strangers; sometimes it comes from the oldest children in the house, the ones trusted to behave, the ones who have already discovered how power works in small spaces.

There were abuses that year, silent, hidden, disguised as play, disguised as older-children-knowing-better. And there was no one to stand up for us. Children rarely know how to call out wrongdoing, especially when they’ve spent their whole lives being told to be grateful, to behave, to keep quiet, to understand their place. The fear of speaking becomes heavier than the pain itself.

I often wonder now: how many children learn early that their pain is inconvenient to others? How many are told, indirectly, that their suffering must be swallowed so the family can remain peaceful, united, acceptable?