When she was little, she always looked forward to Christmas Eve with impatience.
Christmas Eve is in nine days. There should be joy, anticipation, preparations for meeting the family, but in my heart instead of warmth there is coldness. I look at the empty chairs at the table, wondering if I will be sitting alone again this year, even though I have children and grandchildren.
A few weeks ago I called my daughter, Marta. I wanted us to spend the holidays together, like we used to. When she was little, she always looked forward to Christmas Eve with impatience – the smell of gingerbread, the glow of the tree, the presents, and singing Christmas carols together. I asked hopefully:
– Marta, maybe this year you'll come to my place for Christmas Eve? I'll prepare everything, like we used to. We'll be together, like we used to.
There was silence for a moment, after which I heard her voice, but it was different than I remembered – cool, as if impatient.
– Mom, you know it's hard. The kids have their own things to do, and Robert and I were planning to go to the mountains this year. We want to rest a bit, you know, get away from everyday life.
– Up? On Christmas? – I asked, unable to hide my surprise. – What about Christmas Eve? With the family?
– Mom, family isn't just one meeting. We can see each other another time – she answered as if it was something completely obvious.
I felt something inside me break. I tried to smile, pretending that everything was fine, but when I hung up the phone, the tears started flowing on their own. Have the holidays really stopped meaning anything? Have my children forgotten how important those moments were to me when we were all together?
I called my son Wojtek again, hoping he wouldn't let me down. But his answer was similar.
– Mom, this year Ania wants to spend Christmas Eve with her parents. Besides, the kids are tired, and we don't have time for long trips. Maybe we'd better do something after the New Year?
„After the New Year.” These words sounded in my head like an echo that wouldn't go away. Christmas Eve – the most important evening of the year, full of warmth, love, tradition – for my children it has become only an obstacle to their comfortable life.
Today, nine days before Christmas Eve, I sit at an empty table and look at the old porcelain that I always took out for the holidays. I think about how this table used to be filled with laughter, conversations, the smell of borscht and fresh pierogi. How children ran around the Christmas tree, and my husband broke the Christmas wafer with me, wishing me health and peace.
Now I am alone. I know I could call them again, ask, beg, but does it make sense? Do I really want them to come if they do it out of duty and not from the heart? Every day I ask myself: Did I do something wrong? Why is what was once sacred to us now just an inconvenience?
Maybe on Christmas Eve I'll light candles on the table and sit alone, like last year. Maybe I'll pretend to the neighbors again that the children called with wishes. Or maybe I'll just do nothing. Because right now I feel like the holidays that used to be my greatest joy have now become my greatest pain.
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