By: Elizabeth English
Herman and I finally locked our store and dragged ourselves home. It was 11 p.m. Christmas Eve. We’d sold almost all of our toys; and all of the layaway, except one package, had been picked up. But the person who had put a dollar down on that package never appeared.
Early Christmas morning our 12 year old son, Tom, Herman and I were out under the tree opening up gifts. But there was something humdrum about this Christmas. Tom was grown up, and I missed his childish exuberance of past years. As soon as breakfast was over, he left to visit friends and Herman disappeared into the bedroom, mumbling, “I’m going back to sleep.”






