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By Celestine Chua

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Sample text

But the peace never seemed to last. The next night I was up again. I felt the encroaching holiday circle my throat like a cord of tiny blinking lights pulled tight. I had to go downstairs. I had to get under the tree. This was no small task. While mice could roam the house freely (we never used poison again), the human beings were more or less electronically confined to their rooms. We had a complex security system that included weight-sensitive pads secreted in different locations underneath the wall-to-wall carpeting.

On balance, we were as happy or unhappy as any other family we knew. It was only our Christmases that were worse. For almost every other moment, we had mastered that level of normalcy that reconfigured families aspire to, but the season of peace and goodwill toward men unfailingly sent us straight to the pits. The lion’s share of the blame for this must rest on the shoulders of my stepfather, a good man who probably could not help but ruin the holidays for the rest of us because he himself had endured Christmases so biblically dreadful that he knew no other way.

We finally—because we are smart that way—realized that we were not at our cousin’s in-laws’ house at all. Oh, you want the Cairo family! You want the house next door! We wondered who you were, too! Oh well, nice to meet you, folks! Take care! Merry Christmas! 24 Amy Krouse Rosenthal There was the Christmas not too long ago when I went head to head with a virus that was clearly not on holiday. This nasty and persistent little bug first had its way with my insides. That was followed by a few hours of commercialfree vomiting.

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