the house felt empty. But it wasn’t. The children were just asleep, and Andrew hasn’t gotten home yet. He was working late at the studio, still working on music. Leaving you to put your five year old, Aoife, and your seven year old, Aisling, to bed. Then, leaving you to sit in silence and stew in your own thoughts.

Your childhood was nothing but instability and trauma. It wasn’t fair to any child to have to go through that. You grew up moving from house to house, no place ever feeling like a home until you finally solidified a place when you married Andrew. You made him promise to never move. You didn’t want to put your children through what you went through.

It wasn’t just constantly moving houses. It was constant shouting and fighting, belittling and neglect. Something that didn’t build a great character for yourself. Something you also never wanted your children to go through.

In the midst of your resonating thoughts, you found old photo albums that you finally decided to set on the bookshelf after sitting in the attic for years because you didn’t want to look through them and relive the memories. You flip through the pages, the worn photos that were scarce because your family hardly ever took them.

The Christmas pictures were always the most plentiful. So many of them. Which just brought back more and more memories.

You were too busy putting yourself through the torture of looking through photos that reminded you of the life you never wanted to give your children, that you didn’t even hear Andrew come home, so you jumped a little when you heard him behind you,

“So many Christmas pictures… and for what?”

He joked, trying to lighten the mood as he slowly came to your side.

“You’ll be okay. And so will they.”

He says, referring to your children, offering a gentle, reassuring smile.