At five, she is a ball of energy; so excited, she just might combust.  On one side of her head sits a big red bow that matches her smocked dress.  She runs around the dining room in her shiny, fancy, special shoes.  This year at dinner, she gets to sit at the Big Kid Table with the cool cousins.  After dessert and gift giving, she falls asleep on Daddy’s shoulder.  She wakes up in her fluffy white bed hugging Mr. Snuggles and it is still dark outside her window.  Creeping down the stairs in footed pajamas, eyes half-open, she hears a low voice.  She peeks around the corner and sees a person clothed in red.  It’s him! Oh no! She can’t see him on Christmas!  But wait! Mommy is talking to Santa!  Maybe she can talk to him too.  She tip-toes into the living room, hiding behind the couch.  Santa is yelling at Mommy.  He takes a sip from a glass full of something that is not milk. That’s Daddy’s favorite glass.  Santa slams the glass down and steps closer to Mommy, who looks sad.  Then – Santa’s hand collides with Mommy’s cheek, like the sleigh upon a roof, like presents shooting down the chimney, like the reindeers’ feet as they carry him into the night.  Mommy falls to the floor and Santa falls back onto the couch. She sneaks back up the stairs, confused and tired.  She tries to forget, because Santa knows when you’re awake.  And only good girls who go to sleep – and do not tell – get presents. 
    
     At seventeen, she is moody, passive, and uninterested.  Her phone never leaves her hands, and she celebrates by tweeting, texting and ignoring her family.  Her mom tries to discipline, but she is just too tired.  Her dad attempts it, too.  But she won’t listen to a thing he says.  She couldn’t trust a man like him.  Her sister and brother beg her to stay with them, to wait up for Santa and bake cookies.  But she skips out on the big “Night Before” party at her aunt’s, and instead spends the night at her boyfriend’s.  She wakes up on Christmas morning next to the toilet with a raging headache.  After regurgitating everything in her stomach, she makes her way to the mirror.  Around her right eye, a circle of color.  Black and blue color her pale skin.  She lightly touches it with a finger and winces.  But she doesn’t ask questions, she doesn’t bother.  Mom said it was no big deal, and she was taught to keep quiet.

     At twenty-five, she is just married; whisked away by the excitement and expectation of new love, she slaves away all of December to make the most beautiful Christmas and please her husband.  She spends weeks shopping for the perfect gifts, picking out the perfect tree, preparing the perfect Christmas feast.  She is happy – she thinks.  Is happiness supposed to feel so forced?  She feels like her mother; always smiling, but underneath the perfectly pristine wrapping, she is damaged.  The doll in the package looks normal, but when you look closely, you see the bruises on her arms, the handprints on her legs, the sadness in her eyes.  The pressure just might make her crack.  Or she could save herself.  But how could she speak up when all she has known is silence?  Speaking up would hurt even more.  Christmas was a time to be thankful, to be glad, to be merry.  So she would be thankful, glad, merry, and silent.