I remember it like it was yesterday. My mother, standing in the hallway, holding the Christmas

present I'd wrapped for my classmate, Stella. I was eight years old. Mom's hand trembled.

He's, there's a house of the cross. She asked, clenching a teeth.

Do you love Christ? No, Mom. I just, you want to celebrate its birth. Mom, it's just

four. She opened the front door and threw the present out on the driveway. I wasn't thinking

straight, so I just ran outside to get it. Still, in my pajamas.

Burn it, she said, dropping the lighter on the welcome mat. Then she showed the door behind

me.

Mom, I called out. It's cold, Mom. Make it feet in two inches of snow. The shiny red

wrapping paper crinkled between my fingers. I kept banging on the door, trying to explain

myself. Mom, please.

I must have stood there for fifteen minutes. Then I lit the gift on fire. It was just

this stupid pony figure I'd gotten from a happy meal, but I knew that Stella would have loved

it. She collected them, and she didn't have the purple one. It wasn't even about Christmas.

I just wanted to give her something without making it weird. When all the red wrapping

paper had turned to cold, Mom opened the door. She stared me down. I tried to physically

hold my mouth still to keep my teeth from chattering.

It's this, the house of God, she asked.

No, Mom. Who owns this house? The, the old blood. Who owns this family? The old blood.

Who owns you?

I looked up at her. She looked almost apologetic, holding her garbage bag in her left hand.

She held it out to me, and had dropped the room gift in it. The old blood does, Mom.

...