Every year as the holiday season arrives, I find myself untouched by its spirit. The glittering lights, the festive music, the hustle and bustle—it all fades into a void I’ve grown accustomed to. Christmas was never a celebration in my life. Even after I was adopted at eight, it wasn’t about warmth or togetherness. It was a performance. A show orchestrated with lights strung high and decorations stuffed into every corner. For Teresa, my adoptive mother, the measure of the holidays was in how much she could display, how many gifts she could pile under the tree, how grand it all appeared. But appearances, I learned, were everything to her—substance, love, and meaning were not.
I remember one Christmas vividly. I wanted a computer. I had been captivated by technology, by the endless possibilities that came with a keyboard and screen. Teresa and Terry knew this. Yet, they decided the gift would go to Josh, Teresa’s nephew-in-law. He wasn’t family by blood, but somehow his place in their world always seemed more secure than mine. The night before, they let us peek at the gifts. I spotted the computer and thought it was mine. I stayed up all night in anticipation, dreaming of the worlds I could build with it. Morning came, and with it, the gut-wrenching realization that it wasn’t for me. My gift was a cheap toy laptop—a plastic mockery that beeped hollow sounds, a slap in the face compared to the real thing.
This was my childhood. A constant reminder that as a foster kid, I didn’t matter. My life was dictated by Teresa’s whims. I was grounded for every significant occasion—birthdays, holidays, school events. Even when there was no reason, she would invent one. I lived confined to my room, punished not for who I was but for what I represented: something inconvenient.
These experiences carved scars into my psyche. October is the hardest—it always begins with the heavy ache of my birthday, October 7th, a day that was nothing but proof of Teresa’s disdain. It cascades into Thanksgiving, where family I barely knew would fill our home, followed by Christmas, when her biological children would visit. She lavished attention on them while I sat in my room, “grounded” again. The walls of that room were my witness to every instance of my neglect, every year my heart broke a little more.
Now, as an adult, I can’t bring myself to celebrate holidays. No trees, no lights, no gifts wrapped with care. I don’t hum along to festive tunes or join in New Year’s countdowns. PTSD floods me each year like clockwork, dragging me back to those days. The person I’ve become has no space for celebrations that once served as a canvas for my pain. Anthony, my husband, understands this. He gives his family gifts, but he never pressures me to partake. He knows the void I carry.
What deepens the wound is Caleb, my son. Teresa stole him from me. She tricked me into signing what I thought were insurance papers but turned out to be full guardianship papers. By the time I realized, the legal battle was already lost. She told me it was better for Caleb if I stayed away, that my presence would confuse him. Eventually, I succumbed to her manipulation, stepping back and allowing her to raise him. Over time, Caleb began calling her “Mom” and Terry “Dad.” It’s a cruelty I can never forget. He turned 18 this June, and I hope one day he’ll see through the lies they’ve fed him. I hope he’ll find his way to the truth.
The holiday season doesn’t just bring back memories; it reminds me of Teresa’s grip on my life. Her pristine Mormon image was a mask hiding the chaos she caused. I watched her scream, cry, break things, and manipulate Terry into submission time and time again. She justified every action, wielding her pain like a weapon, while Terry, ever the peacekeeper, let her destroy everything in her path to avoid confrontation. That chaos swallowed my childhood, my son, and years of my life I’ll never get back.
As I write this, the memories weigh heavily, but there’s relief in laying them down. Maybe it’ll ease the dreams that haunt me, the ones that replay Teresa’s face, her shrill voice, her calculated cruelty. Maybe it’ll lessen the ache I feel for Caleb, for the time lost and the hope I still carry for reconciliation.
To those who do celebrate, I wish you warmth, love, and safety this holiday season. Cherish your loved ones. Create memories worth keeping. And if you’re someone who struggles, like me, know that you’re not alone. May we all find a way to reclaim what was lost—or at the very least, find peace in the shadow of the past.
Warm wishes,
Derrick Solano