The holidays are always weird for me. Maybe it was always having to choose which parent to spend it with and which parent to be mad it wasn’t them (granted, that was probably more in my head than theirs). Maybe it was that my Jewish grandmother was making Christmas cookies. Or maybe, it was that the standard, portrayed in books and movies, was impossible to achieve in real life. If there wasn’t a house full of friends and family, a roaring fireplace, a beautiful tree under which everyone’s wishes could be found beautifully wrapped, we’d all failed.
