Christmas Day was bitterly cold. The sky was gray and unrelenting, a perfect reflection of how I felt inside. The old, second-hand tree artificial Christmas stood in the corner of our living room, its sparse branches weighed down by mismatched ornaments and a single string of flickering lights.
My daughters, five-year-old triplets Anna, Bella, and Cara, sat cross-legged on the threadbare carpet, scribbling in dollar-store coloring books I had managed to buy for the girls.
Their giggles and chatter brought a warmth I couldn’t quite feel myself.
“Look, Mama!” Anna said, holding up her page. She had colored a horse bright purple, giving it giant, floppy wings.
