Boxing Day 1956, the day I stopped being a child. I was six years old.
It began late Christmas Eve when mum came home drunk. On the way back from the Red Lion she’d fallen on the ice, breaking a heel and snagging her best stockings. She needed someone to blame and I was the obvious choice. Told me Father Christmas didn’t exist and I wouldn’t be getting any presents. Turned out she was right on both counts.
By the following Christmas, she was dead, a mixture of drink and drugs – and I’d grown into the cynic I am today.
A 100-word story for this week’s prompt from Friday Fictioneers.
Photo courtesy of J Hardy Carroll