It was a hard year for my family. Whenever my mom looked over at the tree and presents, she would warn us, “There won’t be as much for Christmas this year. Try not to be disappointed.” Christmas had traditionally been a time for my parents to make us happy. In years past, we had a lot of presents here and there, taking over the living room.
On Christmas morning, we nervously waited in the hallway until Dad told us everything was ready. We rushed into the living room and let the wrapping paper fly. “Here’s another one for you,” said Mom as she handed me a package. I looked at it, confused. Having spent so much time examining the presents before Christmas, I recognized this one. But it had not been mine. It was my mom’s. A new label (标签) had been put on it, with my name written in my mother’s handwriting.
“Mom, I can’t…”
I was stopped by my mother’s eager, joyful look—a look I could not really understand. “Let’s see what it is, honey. Hurry and open it.”
It was a blow dryer. Though this may seem a simple gift, to me it was so much more. Being an eleven-year-old girl, I was stunned. In my world, where receiving outweighed giving, my mom’s act of selflessness was incomprehensible. It was a huge act. Tears filled my eyes and I thought in disbelief about how much my mom must love me to give up her Christmas so I could have a few more