Every year at the start of December, as predictably as finding pieces of chocolate behind the cardboard windows of an Advent calendar, I dream that my family forgets to celebrate Christmas.
Yesterday I was minding my own business, turning twenty-six, when I received a strange email. My parents and I were waiting for a table at Hugo’s, and my phone buzzed for the 97th time that morning. Instead of another notification that someone had posted on my Facebook wall, I got this:
your grandmother beverly was a husband hunting woman. she did not care with whom she carried on. she broke up many homes.