When I was a kid, I heard about Christmas, but I didn’t know what it looked or felt like. Early in January, when school reopened, I would walk down the street and see Christmas trees. I often wondered what they were for. On rare occasions, I’d go to church and see the Christmas decorations, which gave me a faint sense that something special had happened.

My dad didn’t believe in Christmas. He said it was rooted in pagan worship and refused to take part in anything pagan, fearing it would jeopardize his soul’s place in heaven. Every Christmas, he locked us—me, my brother, and my mom—inside the house. He was the only one allowed to come and go as he pleased.

He’d go out to buy food for my mom to cook and get other necessities, ensuring we had no reason to step outside. I didn’t see my peers in their new clothes, nor did I know that people exchanged gifts during Christmas.

For us, Christmas wasn’t a time of joy. It felt like imprisonment. While the world celebrated, we shivered at the thought of the season. Even when we reached high school, my dad continued locking us in. In fact, his disdain for Christmas was the reason he didn’t allow us to attend boarding school.

Eventually, my parents divorced. We didn’t see it coming. One day, my dad left and never returned. Months later, my mom explained that they were no longer married.

But the tradition didn’t stop. While my dad’s reasons were sentimental and religious, my mom’s were practical. She couldn’t afford to buy us anything for Christmas, so she told us, “Your dad warned me not to let you out. If you go out, you’ll have to stay out forever and enjoy Christmas every day of your life.”

My first real Christmas came years later, at training school. For the first time, I sang Christmas carols during the actual season, not after it had passed.

Staying indoors during Christmas became a habit. I didn’t hate Christmas, but I didn’t want to participate in anything associated with it. My girlfriend—now my wife—stubbornly tried to change that. I’d follow her to Christmas events but remained indifferent to it all. She bought me gifts, sometimes using money from my wallet to buy presents for herself, just to show them to me later.

We got married six years ago. Last year, during Christmas, we visited my dad. He sat in a chair in the corner of his room. While he was happy to see us, his mood shifted when we mentioned that we were bringing him a Christmas gift.

“You should know better, Andrews,” he said. “Christmas is not for people like us.”

But he accepted the gift anyway.

When we visited my mom, she was asleep, seemingly oblivious to the season. She didn’t say much when we mentioned Christmas, but as we were leaving, she asked, “So if it’s not Christmas, does that mean you won’t come to visit?”

My brother turned out even worse. He refuses to celebrate Christmas to this day, claiming, “Dad called it pagan, so it’s pagan.” Ironically, he’s not even religious.

I’m trying my best to be everything I wasn’t as a boy. My wife is making sure of it. She says, “I don’t want our kids locked up during Christmas. You’d better free yourself so you can enjoy the season with them when they grow up.”

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That’s exactly what I’m doing.

This year, I’m buying a huge sack of goodies. I’ll dress up as Father Christmas, go back to my village near where my dad lives, and spread the holiday cheer. Maybe he’ll see the joy on the kids’ faces as they receive gifts and change his perspective on Christmas. I hope he realizes that occasions meant for giving can’t be bad, regardless of their origins.

— Andrews

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