Most families talk about their holiday traditions with ease. They describe loud gatherings, crowded tables, familiar songs, and photos taken year after year. Our tradition was different. It was quiet. It was simple. And for a long time, I did not fully understand it.
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Every Christmas Eve, my mother prepared a full holiday meal in our small apartment. She worked in the narrow kitchen for hours, humming softly as she moved from stove to counter. There was always ham glazed just right, mashed potatoes rich with butter, green beans cooked slowly with bits of bacon, and cornbread wrapped carefully in foil to stay warm.
She set the table as she always did. But there was one plate that never stayed with us.
When I was young, I asked her why. I remember standing on a chair so I could see over the counter, watching her spoon food onto an extra plate.
“That one is not for us,” she told me gently. “It is for someone who needs it.”
She said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
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