THE GIFT
It was Sunday, Christmas. Our family had spent the holidays in San Francisco with my husband’s parents. But in order for us to be back at work on Monday, we found ourselves driving the 400 miles back home to Los Angeles on Christmas day. We stopped for lunch in King City. The restaurant was nearly empty. We were the only family and ours were the only children. I heard Erik, my one year old, squeal with glee: “Hithere.” (Two words he thought were one.) “Hithere.” He pounded his fat baby hands — whack, whack — on the metal high chair tray. His face was alive with excitement, eyes wide, gums bared in a toothless grim. He wriggled, and chirped, and giggled, and then I saw the source of his merriment . . . and my eyes could not take it all in at once. A tattered rag of a coat — obviously bought by someone else, eons ago — dirty, greasy, and…
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