‘Come with me,’ she half whispered and half slurred in the dark (Picture: Britt Jones)
As I opened my presents on Christmas morning, I felt a pang of sadness.
I was no more than five years old and I knew exactly what I was getting.
How is this possible? Well, it all started the night before.
On Christmas Eve in 2002 – very late at night – I was awoken from my bed by my mum. ‘Come with me,’ she half whispered and half slurred in the dark.
We tip-toed through the deadly silent landing to where she had stashed mine and my siblings’ unwrapped presents in her room.
As if I wasn’t already confused enough, my mum’s boyfriend suddenly sat up in their bed with a disgusted look on his face.
‘You’re horrible for involving her,’ he hissed – but Mum ignored him.
With hindsight, I suspect he knew what was coming but I certainly didn’t. All I could think about was why did I have to get up and drag these bags down the stairs and not my brothers – who were five and three at the time.
Mum sat me in front of a pile of toys, wrapping paper and sellotape and told me that I was to help her so that everything would be ready for Christmas morning.
At the time I felt strangely proud about this. Mum often referred to me as her ‘mini me’ but this felt like she was making me her little helper, like she was letting me in on a ‘big girl’ job and honestly, I was just happy to be with her.
I recognised each gift before it was opened (Picture: Britt Jones)
With Mum opposite me we set about wrapping the gifts and I was so excited. I could see things I’d wanted for Christmas – from Barbies to toy lipsticks and pretend makeup – so I was more than happy to handle every toy before messily rolling them into themed paper.
It took roughly an hour to wrap the lot, and when we were done Mum put me back to bed.
As I drifted off I thought about how nice that time had been together playing with toys and chatting. However, when I woke on Christmas Day, the realisation suddenly hit.
Were those toys actually for me? If they were, then what did Santa bring me?
These thoughts raced through my mind as my brothers bounced downstairs, screaming about Santa and guessing what they may have got for being good boys.
When we reached the tree all I could see was the same paper – and my questionable wrapping skills – on full display.
I recognised each gift before it was opened. After all, I’d played with these dolls just eight hours ago.
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My heart sank as I realised my suspicions were correct. Santa had not brought me – or my brothers – a thing.
Once the excitement from playing with toys that family had sent us died down, I turned to mum to confirm my suspicions about Father Christmas.
I was hoping she’d tell me I got it wrong. That he’d just been too busy and needed our help, or any other explanation.
Instead, she gave me a sideways glance with a kind of ‘shh’ look to it before telling me to ‘stop being so silly’. But when my brothers were out of earshot she told me I had to keep it a secret from them.
I was devastated. The magic was gone. And I knew then, my love for Christmas was over.
From that day on, I no longer enjoyed the festive season in the same way.
Sleigh drives through towns, Christmas films, pantomimes and seeing ‘Santa’ was just something I went along with for the sake of my brothers. I’d pretend to be excited, but it was all an act.
In fact, I felt quite jealous of them for having so much excitement and belief, and I was also angry and confused about why I had to be the one to have my joy ruined for the sake of keeping my mum company.
My love for Christmas was over (Picture: Britt Jones)
I started to continually made comments about how Santa wasn’t real. In response, my mum would tell my brothers that not to listen to me.
In private she’d say that she didn’t want their Christmas spirit to be snuffed out until they were at least 12 (clearly that was the age she deemed appropriate to burst the magical bubble, just not in my case).
By the time I was eight, we were in care.
I came clean to my brothers (then 8 and 6) about the night I wrapped up presents. ‘So, you see, Santa can’t be real.’ I said. This really upset my twin brother then, but now, we talk about how awful it is that mum took this from me.
Though I’ve never confronted her about this particular incident, she has never apologised either. Now, we are estranged now for all sorts of reasons, but this was just a classic example of her having no regard for my well-being.
I’d rather have woken up to nothing wrapped and blamed it on the elves. Instead, she once again put herself above her children and didn’t think about the implications or consequences of her actions.
Now I’m 27 and have two toddlers who are approaching the age I was when I found out that there was no Christmas magic at all and I just can’t imagine doing that to them.
There is so much wonder in a child’s mind that looking into their eyes and destroying their glee is almost incomprehensible to me, which is why I try to make December as magical as possible.
We watch Christmas films, hang decorations and we wait until the kids are asleep before bringing their wrapped presents downstairs ready for the next day.
We play festive music all day and watch Christmas cartoons, sing songs and read books. When they get older we want to have them put out milk and cookies and write Santa a Christmas list, which we can all post.
And I’ll absolutely keep the magic alive until they come to their own conclusion.
I want to keep them young and full of belief for as long as possible – I just wish mum had done the same for me.
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As I opened my presents on Christmas morning, I felt a pang of sadness.