F R I D A Y . D E C E M B E R . 1 8 T H . 1 9 9 8

So the battle has begun between husband and wife. The thickly stacked white papers sent to and from locations complete with little green acceptance slips. Just in time for the C H R I S T M A S rush, needle-ridden trees, and growing cold meals and not nearly appropriate under the tree gifts.

The count down commences to our holiday dinner, the dinner in which we prepare, sit and feast and pretend that all is well as the *happy a happy and healthy new year* pitch rides closely behind. I have grown increasingly weary and tired of this yearly show we put on and for whom? Friends of the family have wised up over the years and stays clear my parent's household and company for most of any given year.

So why do I put myself through this ordeal yet again this year?

To be the good daughter the only daughter of my mother and the unknown sister of my father's first daughter.

I do it for my mother, to save her from the continued sadness and from my father's wrath.

Christmas always meant so much to her.