The first Christmas since Richard, my father, died, and the funk of stale liquor and vomit was replaced with the aroma of cinnamon scented candles. But the kitchen still stunk of fried fish and borscht as Mom prepared a feast. We had a plastic tree. Almost naked, the faux-fern was carelessly draped by a short string of cherry red ornaments. I sat on the couch, silent as she set the table. To my mother and me, Christmas had become a formality. To feel like a normal Polish-American family, we forced ourselves to prepare dishes neither of us enjoyed and decorate our cluttered apartment with 99 cent mistletoes and lights.

Holiday jingles and themed television shows didn’t excite me, but I couldn’t escape them. At school, the facility threw parties for the students before winter break. “How about some music?” my English teacher, Ms. Wilde would ask, fiddling around with the antique record player she kept at her desk. Eccentric, she rarely combed her hair and always spoke in high-pitched squeals. But at 13, when many of my peers listened to songs about sex and drugs, regularly viewed pornography, and experimented with the vodka in their parent’s private stash, having cardboard cutouts of Santa Claus in each classroom and dancing to “Frosty the Snowman” seemed like an attempt to reclaim our innocence.

Maybe I was bitter for never experiencing the cheer being advertised. Christmas never stopped Richard from coming home drunk. He would still hit my mother and voice his disgust. “You failure,” he’d shout, towering over me. I’d retaliated after he punched Mom. “This slime is my son?” His eyes were bloodshot and his spine bones poked from beneath from his skin. She clenched her stomach in pain, while Richard tugged on my ear and slapped the back of my head. “It’s because you were raised by this whore.” He pushed me away. “That’s why you don’t call me ‘dad.’”

He was my biological dad, nothing more. To my mother, he was a constant evil. But since childhood she’d safeguarded others: Whether it was her schizophrenic mother, who she kept from hurting himself, or protecting me from abuse. It gave her purpose. I overhead her telling Ching, who lived next door, about her loneliness. Following Richard’s death, she reminscened on the early days of their relationship. He would promise her the world. Coincidentally, it was after my birth that he began to question his life choices and drink away regrets. Now, Mom became embroiled in an endless cycle of going to work and coming home to an empty bed. “I’m grateful that Mariusz’s there, but some things you can’t talk to your child about.” 

“You need a man. It’s time to move on.” Ching was a social recluse, but she trusted us. Mom had invited her over for our holiday dinner, but gatherings weren’t her thing.

“All men are the same. I swear, if my son ever comes home drunk, I’ll hang myself. They say it’s genetic, you know? He already has his father’s impatience.”

That Christmas evening was cold and damp. I looked out the window. Our ancestors believed that waiting until the first stars were out before eating brought good luck. However, the horizon was blanketed with thick clouds. A storm just passed. Ornaments wrapped around our neighbor’s fire escape flickered on and off. It didn’t bother them.

There were two sets of silverware prepared. “Did you take your meds?” Her hands shook as she finished preparing the table, which was covered in a worn cloth. 

“Yes.” I was on anti-depressants. Mom insisted I speak to a professional. She self-medicated and took pills out of my prescription. She had become determined to avoid her mother’s faith, said to run in the family. To her, Prozac was the end-all-be-all. “Nothing,” I reported back, disappointed in Mother Nature’s reluctance to grant me the “perfect” Christmas.

“Forget it, come eat.” I trudged back to the dining room. Within seconds, Mom started to pick apart a piece of salmon. “I’m starving.” She squeezed a spoonful of lemon juice onto her plate. I started with the soup. Mushrooms floated atop the red liquid. I hated them.

I wasn’t interested in the food. The conversation between her and Ching had haunted me for weeks. To others, I was a bastard child, destined to become a statistic: Either I would become like my father, becoming a testament to the misfortune of genetics, or I wouldn’t, becoming a minority. Everyone told me that I was different, but was my own mother expecting me to fail? Or did she, in her own way, try to prevent that? I didn’t have the courage to ask. “Do you miss him?”  

“Even if I did, do you remember ever having a dinner like this? Nice and quiet, like a miracle.”

As the co-founder and administrator of The Corner Society, Mariusz Zubrowski is out to inspire creativity and the arts. He’s the creator of the “Momma’s Boyfriend” series, which is gearing up for its cinematic releases. And when he’s not writing or exploring Tumblr, he spends most of his time watching television with his cats (both of whom can vouch for the disastrous reality shows he has forced them to enjoy).