Scene: Christmas at Nanny’s. Parents divorced. I’m about ten years-old, Donna’s twelve, Barb’s eight, and Maria’s six.

We leave Nanny’s house late on Christmas night, under a cold, clear, winter sky, the bright, white moon follows us home. The moon twinkles at me, shivers, won’t let me get out of its sight. I shiver in response, huddle up to my baby sister, Maria, to try to keep warm in the blue, cold Dodge, as Mom drives through the quiet back roads of Darien to Stamford. We are the last to leave out of our extended family’s gathering at Nanny’s – the last to leave due to the fact that Mom doesn’t want to be alone, with just us girls. She wants to put us right to bed. We are the last to leave because it’s lonely to go home to our little apartment on Seaside Avenue after the divorce. I can’t help but feel badly, as cousins leave Nanny’s, with both of their parents. How weird life is, as we try to find our way, fatherless, husbandless.

My body pushes against Maria, who is in the middle of the back seat, as Barb pushes against her on the other side, to steal the heat given off by a bundled up, snuggly girl. I try not to touch the cold metal harshness of the car door. Donna sits up-front, in her usual spot, next to Mom.

Sharp air startles our sleepy eyes, and not until the car warms up will they slowly, tiredly close to little girls’ dreams under the light of hundreds of stars, a canopy over our bedtime.

Christmas Day spent at Nanny’s: The whirl and chatter of adults with booming voices, laughter, and the singing of carols, as radio music whips through the house. The sounds flow up the chimney, along with the sparkling flicks of Uncle Pippi’s fire from the crackling logs in the fireplace. In our matching, floral, holiday dresses, my sisters and I have to sit on the sofa next to Grandpa, instead of at our usual place on the hearth, with our legs sprawled out on the soft, bluish rug. Even Grandpa seems uncomfortable as he places a gnarly hand up to a cheek, quietly contemplating, as he’s told where to sit, his usual armchair given over to one of my aunts.

“Be good, girls. Be quiet. Don’t get your dresses dirty. Behave! Wish everyone a Merry Christmas!” says Mom. She tries to keep normal what is not normal.

“There’s something special for you on the tree, Jeanne,” says Aunt LaLa.

With these simple, little words, I feel loved, wanted. It helps me deal with the pain of missing Daddy. The pain of not feeling wanted by Daddy. Whether it’s true or not, I know it hurts as Mom coldly pushes him away from us. There are no presents from Daddy.

Joyous is the white envelope with “Jeanne” written in a swirly hand, a red curlicue ribbon bobbing at my name. The ribbon is Aunt LaLa’s trademark, found on gifts for everyone. Inside, a ten-dollar bill awaits.

I jump to the tree. It’s a fake tree, yet pretty, with blue tips and red, satiny balls hooked to the branches. I smile as I can’t help wonder why Aunt LaLa has an artificial tree when the yard and the gardens, a step outside the front and back doors, are a nature wonderland. The artificial tree, a product of the 1970s, clean and neat, perfectly shaped, fit the house’s simple décor, with its turquoise, paisley-swirled slipcovers on the livingroom sofa and chairs, and the maple, Windsor-style chairs in the diningroom, all from Sears, Roebuck, and Co., where Aunt LaLa works in the Customer Service department in Stamford. Customer Service fits her, as she’s a giving person. It is no small feat how Aunt LaLa helps fill the void this Christmas.