Home

Kendra always cherished Christmas. Everything surrounding the holiday, she believed, was filled with tenderness and bliss.
She could remember the days leading up to Christmas when she was little, like going to the mall with her mother in the middle of November, just when the weather was turning cold, to buy new winter clothing. She never had to wear last year’s clothes.
She remembered going to the Christmas tree farm each year to pick out a live tree. She would bolt to the tallest, fullest tree on the farm, wrap her arms around it (even though they would only fit about a foot and a half around) and beg her parents for it. Her mother would reply sweetly, ‘Not this year, sweetheart,’ and they’d find another tree.
Kendra loved to wake a few days before Christmas in warm pajamas, the scent of fresh baked gingerbread cookies wafting into her room. She would jump up, bounce down the stairs and into the kitchen to find humongous gingerbread men on cookie sheets laid on the island. Beside them would be tubes of white frosting and assorted candies for decorating the oversized cookies. Kendra and her mother would laugh and play, squeezing vanilla frosting on their fingers and each other’s noses. They took turns decorating a gingerbread man at a time.
And she never failed to smile at the thought of rousing at six o’ clock sharp on Christmas morning, pine and potpourri heavy in the air, and scurrying down the spiral staircase to the Christmas tree. The tree was decorated the same every year with mismatched ornaments, strings of popcorn, and a large, metal yellow star as the topper. There were stacks of presents, each wrapped in a different holiday paper. Kendra would stand, awestruck, until her parents entered the room and permitted her to open the first present. She would watch her mother and father exchange gifts.
The was one present in particular that Kendra remembered—a silver necklace with a large, diamond encrusted cross that hung on it. Her mother’s eyes lit up every time her gaze found it.
But that was when she was little, before her mom became sick, before she died. It was before her dad got a job in Denver and before she came home from school that fateful day to find two new cars in the cobblestone driveway. These were the new owners of their house, her father explained to her, and they had a new house in a new place. Kendra couldn’t bring herself to understand why her father had just up and sold the house without a worry in the world, without a care about how his daughter would feel, and bought another house on the spot. But all that was certainly before Miss Caroline Sullivan Alexander came into the picture when they arrived at their new home in Denver, Colorado.
The problem was the woman herself. High strung, conceited, and materialistic were a few thoughts that came to Kendra’s mind. The woman wore thick foundation that was entirely too dark for her skin color, lots of mascara, and bright red lipstick. She had strawberry blonde hair and wore expensive fur coats.
Caroline’s house was a monstrous log mansion, paid for with her last husband’s fortune. It had large glass windows that shook violently when the wind picked up. Each room was furnished according to a theme, along with the bathrooms.
The one thing that broke Kendra’s heart was that she knew Christmas would never be the same as it was back at her old house with both of her parents. She learned this the first year she lived in Caroline’s home.
True, they still had a large live tree, but it wasn’t the same. The tree always had to match and followed a different color scheme every year. Large bows, thick ribbons, and shatter-prone ornaments were included on the tree. A large, perfect glowing star was the topper.
Kendra didn’t like that. She enjoyed the mismatched warmness of the old family tree and baking cookies with her mom.
Her mom . . .