My mother believes in Christmas. She does her best to make it the best day of the entire year, pouring out money for decorations and presents. When we were little we would sit down with her catalog collection and circle the toys we liked, to give her ideas. Christmas morning we woke up at the crack of dawn to find the tree overflowing with packages. The stockings she made were stuffed with tiny presents, candy and a new toothbrush, and we were allowed to take them down and paw through them before our parents woke up. Usually an early riser, Mom would be exhausted Christmas morning from a night spent hauling presents out of hiding and arranging everything just so. We held out as long as we could (half an hour) before sneaking into our parents' bedroom and checking to see if they were really asleep. This inevitably woke them up.

Then came the endless process of breakfast, baths, and dress-up in our fancy Christmas outfits, so that we could be properly photographed during the present opening. We did not exactly savor the gift-opening process, tearing everything open as fast as they were handed to us, grinning and jumping up and down like four crazed monkeys. The rest of the day was spent trying to play with all our new toys at once, and gorging on candy and Christmas dinner.

I hate Christmas. The first Christmas after the divorce is the one I remember most vividly. I won't let myself forget it.

We were scheduled to spend Christmas Eve and morning with Mom, then the afternoon and Christmas dinner with Dad. Our father was distraught at the idea of missing Christmas with us for the first time in 12 years. As usual, he nursed his pain and anger with alcohol. I don't know exactly what happened, but this is what I remember and what I've been told.

The four of us went to bed early on Christmas Eve. We knew that the faster we went to sleep, the faster morning would come. I woke up shortly after midnight when I heard a commotion downstairs and mens' voices outside talking and shouting. There were police cars on the street and policemen with flashlights searching all around our house. My little sisters and brother were in the hallway when I came out of my room. We crept downstairs to find Mom in the kitchen with the police, holding herself together pretty well, especially once she saw us. Her boyfriend Dale arrived soon and the police left with a promise that they would search the whole neighborhood. Mom explained to us that Dad had broken into the garage and scared her while she was bringing in our presents. She said he was very drunk and very upset that it was Christmas and he was away from us. She made hot cocoa and tried to calm us down enough to go back to sleep. I was very frightened, and we kept asking if he was going to break in again. Mom assured us that he was far away, and that the police would find him.

We didn't know exactly what had happened and it wasn't until years later that my mother told me that he had surprised her in the garage and forced her into the living room, where he pushed her facedown on the couch and sat on her back, holding a gun to the back of her head and telling her that if she ever tried to take his children away, he would kill her. He made her swear that she would never move away. My father says he didn't have a gun, that it was only a tape recorder that he brought to record her promise, and that he told her it was a gun to scare her.

The four of us went back to bed and fell asleep again. Alice and I took the mattresses off our twin beds and put them on the floor of Amber and Andrew's room, right next to their bunk bed. We didn't talk too much. Dale stayed and helped Mom with the presents. He put together my new 10-speed bicycle.

I don't know what time it was when we heard the crashing and shouting downstairs. Alice jumped up and ran out the door before I could stop her, but I grabbed the little kids and made them hide in the closet with me. I envisioned my father coming to kill us once he got done with Mom. I didn't know about the gun, so in my imagination he was going to cut us all to pieces with a knife from the kitchen. My 6-year-old brother Andrew was at the front of the closet and after a few minutes of hiding he broke away from me and ran downstairs. I wrapped my arms tight around Amber when she tried to follow him.

Eventually Amber convinced me to let her go so that we could find out what was going on. By the time we got downstairs the police were there again and my father was arrested and out of sight. There was blood on the tiled floor of the foyer. Dale was talking to the cops while Mom held us all and tried to explain.

Alice had rushed downstairs to find Dad and Dale fighting by the open front door. Dale had a long metal pole in his hands, which was actually part of a bedframe that had been in the foyer closet. He struck Dad in the face, knocking him down and knocking out most of his teeth, which was when Alice jumped in the middle, covering Dad with her 10-year-old self and screaming at Dale to stop.

The police were still close and they came right away when Mom called. After they arrested Dad they came to tell us that he had been hiding in the doghouse (which he had built and the dog had never used), which was why they didn't find him earlier.

I don't remember many details after that. We went to bed, we got up in the morning, we opened presents. Dale went back home to have Christmas with his wife and kids.

That afternoon we were taken to the Air Force Base to see our father. He was in a small apartment which served as his cell and hospital room. We all acted as if everything was fine, staring at his broken mouth and making small-talk about the presents we had gotten. My mother never pressed charges.