I helped Mom wrap the Christmas presents that Christmas Eve. The one when my parents were separated. I was all of thirteen or fourteen, but I felt much older as I did the job Dad normally did.
I wrapped my presents last . . . a stone-washed pair of jeans, a button-up shirt with tiny Pepsi logos all over like polka dots. That was it. A lump formed in my throat as too many thoughts rushed through my brain, down my throat, and into my heart.