My name is Joanne Kessler. I’m sixty-two years old, and my husband, Walter, passed away two years ago.
We were married for thirty-six years.
For most of those years, Christmas was the happiest time in our home.
Walter loved every part of it, especially handing out presents while wearing an old red Santa hat.
He would announce each recipient’s name as though introducing a professional hockey player.
Our grandchildren, ten-year-old Lily and seven-year-old Noah, adored the tradition.
After Walter died, Christmas became quieter.
But I still looked forward to spending it with our son, Adam, his wife, Renee, and the children.
At Thanksgiving, Adam had personally invited me.
“Same arrangement this year, Mom. Come around noon.”
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