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Christmas was a (8) affair when I grew up. There were just my parents and I. I vowed (9) someday I’ d marry and have six children, and at Christmas my house would (10) with energy and love.
I found the man (11) shared my dream, but we had not reckoned (12) the possibility of (13) . Undaunted, we applied (14) adoption, and then he arrived.
We called him Our Christmas Boy (15) he came to us during that season of joy. Then nature surprised us again. We (16) two biological children to the family—not as many as we had (17) for, but three made an entirely satisfactory (18) .
As Our Christmas Boy grew, he made it clear that only he had the expertise to select and (19) the Christmas tree. He rushed the season, starting his gift list in November. He pressed us into singing carols, our froglike voices contrasting (20) his (21) gift of perfect pitch. Each holiday he (22) us up, leading us through a round of merry chaos.
Then, on his 26th Christmas, he left us in a car accident (23) his way home to his wife and infant daughter. But first he had stopped (24) the family home to decorate our tree.
(25) -stricken, his father and I sold our home, where memories (26) every room, and moved away. Seventeen years later, we grew old enough to return home, and (27) into a small quiet house, like the house of my childhood. Our other son and daughter had married and had begun their own Christmas traditions in another part of the country.
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