Cara Hunter

I bloody hate Christmas. I suppose I must have liked it once, when I was a kid, but I don’t remember. As soon as I was old enough I’d walk – anything to get out of the house. I never had anywhere to go, but even walking the streets in circles was better than sitting around the living room staring at each other, or the exquisite torture of yet another Only Fools and Horses Christmas Special. And the older I’ve got the more I loathe this time of year. Cheery festive tat from the end of October to long after New Year. You’ll change your mind, people said, when you have kids; you’ll see – Christmas with a child of your own is a magical time. And it was. When we had Jake, it was. I remember him making the most amazing paper decorations, all on his own – reindeer and snowmen and polar bears in cut-outs and careful, intricate silhouettes. And we had holly, and oranges in the toes of knitted stockings, and little white lights strung across the garden. I remember it actually snowed one year, and he sat there, at his bedroom window, completely entranced as huge flakes swirled softly down, barely heavy enough to fall. So yes, it was magical. But what happens when you’ve lost the child who made it so – what then? People never talk to you about that. They don’t tell you how to cope with the Christmas that come After. Or the next, or the one after that.