A Christmas Story

I hate Christmas. If you were me, you'd hate it too. It hasn't been the same since we had to flee our country. It's all cold here in London. There's only smoke and I can barely breath. Mum's still in the hospital with Coleen after she got very sick. Dad's at home with me and Carlos, and all are family is gone.

People at school are bragging to their friends about what they're doing this Christmas. I don't have any friends to brag to. And I have nothing to brag about. Kids are always asking me do I know anyone who died or got shot in the war. I don't answer them. I've heard what they say about me. "She's the girl whose family separated." and " That's the homeless girl." I can't wait to get home after school.  

This is my second Christmas in London since we moved. I usually get a little present from Dad, a drawing from Carlos and Mum sends me a letter from the hospital with Coleen's signature. When he's in a good mood, Dad brings me and Carlos out to the shop.

This is the worst Christmas ever. At breakfast, Dad told us that he was going to visit Coleen at the hospital because now she was more sick than ever. Dad also said he was dropping us off at his old friend's house on the other side of the city. He warned us that his wife was quite old and that we can't say anything when she's around. Then Dad got a call and went into the other room. When he came back he was sobbing with tears. We asked him why and then he told us "Lucy, Carlos. Coleen is no longer on this planet." I thought he was lying. That was until Mum came home, with no Coleen. Carlos started moaning. I started whining. The next thing I knew we were all cuddled up on the couch pouring out our grieve for Coleen.

I hate Christmas. And now you know why.  

I wrote this story based on the children in the Syrian war and how Christmas might be for children and their families.