My mom tightened the ribbons in my hair, muttering as usual that I couldn’t manage to tie it properly. I’m thirteen now, and I always remind her, but it seems I’ll forever be her baby. Across the room, my dad was dealing with my brother’s hair. At fifteen, he still can’t figure out how to brush it properly—not that he cares. The quiet morning shattered when Mom’s voice echoed through the house. “We’re late! We won’t make it in time if we don't hurry!” It was her signature line, especially on December twenty-fifth. Every year. She’s Catholic, though the same can’t be said for Dad, who’s Protestant. Their yearly debate over which church we’ll attend is practically a tradition of its own. This year, it’s the local Catholic church. Last year, heavy snow made the uphill trek to the church impossible. We live in a small, close-knit village where everyone knows everyone. If someone misses church, the gossip spreads quickly. But our family? No one calls to check. It’s not that we lack friends—just that our choice of church is as unpredictable as the weather. The only person who ever knows for sure is Mr. Kim, our housekeeper. He’s got a heart of gold, but when it comes to being meddlesome, no one does it better. Mom laid out my dress, carefully preserved for this day. Dad likes to say Santa only brings presents for pretty girls and handsome boys. If that’s true, my brother is definitely out of luck this year. By fifty past nine, we were rushing out the door, making sure we hadn’t forgotten anything, especially Dad’s wallet. The streets were quiet—no one else was wandering around at this hour. As expected, the headman’s family had already claimed the front rows of the church. I don’t know how they manage it every year, especially with their enormous family. The narrow hall smelled of pine and candles as we entered. The priest appeared, a young man with a clean-shaven face. I sometimes wonder how he remembers the verses without making them up. He showed us to our seats, and the ceremony began as we settled in. Predictably, my brother couldn’t stay in his assigned spot and ended up sitting closer to the headman’s daughter. Mom is always annoyed that my brother brings “such distractions” into God’s house. Dad, as usual, didn’t seem to care. The opening carol was beautiful, as always. The priest’s wife sang with a voice so divine it brought Mom to tears. This year’s chosen verses spoke of war and brothers turning on each other, which made her cry even more. Then came the part that always gives me goosebumps—the moment of reconciliation. Enemies embraced enemies. Protestants hugged Catholics. Boys hugged girls. The poor hugged the rich. My brother hugged the headman’s daughter before he hugged Mom. Luckily, she was too moved by the moment to notice. When it was my turn to hug everyone, I tried to focus, though the upcoming communion line was already making me nervous. Every year, I manage to mess something up. Mom always pushes Dad to take communion, but he never does. When it was finally my turn, I took a deep breath and stepped forward, determined not to make a scene. To my relief, everything went smoothly this time. Mom should be proud. As we walked home, the festive air seemed to settle around us. Dad looked tired, his gaze fixed on my brother, who was lost in daydreams—probably about the headman’s daughter. Mom, on the other hand, was positively glowing. She stopped at every beggar on the way home, slipping money into their hands with a smile. For me, Christmas has always been about the presents waiting under the tree. I couldn’t stop wondering who owned the shiny, big box I’d seen earlier. Our family has its own rhythm, a little chaotic and a little messy, but it’s ours. And somehow, amidst all the squabbles and last-minute scrambles, it feels like Christmas every day. ​