My great-uncle, a man who could neither read nor write, had lived with my great-grandparents his entire life. They had taken care of him. But, with his father’s death, he now needed another caretaker.

My grandmother actually owned the house my great-grandparents and great-uncle lived in, so this collision of unfortunate circumstances created an opportunity to solve two problems with one action: My mother, my brothers and I would move into the house because we needed somewhere to stay, and my mother would become my great-uncle’s caretaker because he needed help.

In the days before Christmas we loaded our meager things onto the flatbed of my grandmother’s husband’s pickup truck and ferried them across town to our new home. On Christmas Eve, as we stood in a nearly empty house, a call came. It was my grandmother calling from our new house.

She said Santa had just stopped there.

My brothers and I ran out of the house into the cold stillness of the night, jumped on our bikes and raced through the town’s streets toward the new house. My mother trailed us in the car, her headlights illuminating the way for us.

That was the last time I was ever in the old house.

We burst into the house, eyes aglow, short of breath, mood electric. Gifts ringed the Christmas tree. Nothing major; we were poor.