I was just six when my parents split. My mother, my 9-year-old brother, and I had recently moved into our new home, so we only had boxes around. I recall it being around Christmas Eve, and we hadn’t even put up our Christmas tree. I got to bed early that night. Even today, I can sense the surprise and astonishment from that Christmas morning.

When I opened my door, I saw our Christmas tree, which was fully decorated and had a few presents under it. I was in awe and shocked. I recall strolling over to the tree and finding a little letter from leftover wrapping paper taped to a branch that read, “Merry Christmas, Emily!— Santa.”

That was the day I fully believed in Santa. Now that I look back, I can’t imagine how much emotional suffering my mother was going through as a result of the divorce and not being able to give her children a real Christmas. The fact that she still managed to offer us a brief peek of the holiday demonstrates her love and bravery for us. To me, that was the nicest Christmas ever.