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