I didn't like Christmas either, until we became a matriarchy.

PalmI so longed for a family that cared for each other. For a while, I thought they did. And I played along with that charade. On Christmas Eve afternoon, I'd transform my godparents' living room into a bustling printing press. Postcards, wafer rolls, the dinner menu… The work piled up, and I, my own little head, would get stressed out watching the hours tick by and I still hadn't laminated the cards or the glue holding the glitter in place hadn't dried. I've always been a ridiculously compliant and diligent little doll, not very rebellious, but a terrible procrastinator. When it was time to sit down at the table, I'd get annoyed because no one expected me to place all the stationery I'd made, with personalized messages for each guest, under their plate. Until I got tired of it, or maybe I just grew up. I don't know which came first.

If I can glimpse my memory, I can access the snapshots of those dinners: opulent, scandalous, stereotypical. "Bethlehem, bells of Bethlehem!" blaring at full volume, so loud we can't feel our remorse. And an enormous basin, fresh from the oven, with gleaming porcelain, making its appearance through the dining room's glass door. One of my uncles carries it, ironically triumphant, and behind him—a little lower, smaller—comes my godmother, ready to do the honors and reserve the animal's tail for me, which she knows I like, crispy and curly. She serves; no one waits for her, which surprises me, because my father always tells me that everyone should wait before starting to eat. My uncles shovel, nearly collapsing from the scorching heat. When the plates are already half empty, my godmother drinks the glass of water the doctor recommended before every meal to reduce hunger and feel full sooner. Our father says a prayer and starts dinner.

We have everything: the Raphael concert playing in the background, glasses of wine, glasses of cava, a starter, a main course, and the whole assortment of nougat, shortbread, and chocolates from Syp. But nobody orders anything. If anything, they might boo each other or make jokes. They never have conversations. What you do hear every year is a "You're bitter" or a "Please don't smoke inside, the children are here." They don't see Nadal as an excuse to be together. Being together is the excuse to eat. To eat and eat until they burp and unbutton their pants. Until they're so full they can't move from their chairs all night. And me, emptier each time. Every year, more form and less substance. And yet we do the same things—or more—than everyone else. My friends' families are more alternative, and they're not going to put on such a show this Christmas at El Corte Inglés. At first, I felt sorry for them. And now, a little for myself too. At home, we've caught the act of doing what lasts these 14 days. We indulge ourselves by doing what we think everyone else is doing. That way, not even we suspect that something's wrong.

Time passes. I get dogs and I get older. And a bitterness returns. Because decline is the antonym of Christmas and synonymous with my family. Because they're incompatible, but they'll disappoint me all the same. I approach the date with trepidation. "We're going to please the godmother. We'll have dinner and head home": that's the pact my mother and I make, each time, with our fingers already on the intercom, just before ringing, making the irreversibility of the decision even more dramatic. We both came to the conclusion that we don't like Christmas. Metonymy. The part for the whole. I still don't know which part is the problem—drinking, food, presents, family, us—I resist isolating the x.

More time passes. I get older and understand why I was bitter and why I'm not anymore. My mother asks my cousin and me to dress in red for Christmas Eve dinner at her house. She says she wants the three of us to take a family Christmas photo. I don't recognize her. I'm about to ask her to show me another glimpse of her C-section scar, like when she did in front of a nightclub to prove she was my mother. She's even wearing miniature red and gold Santa hat earrings. My cousin and I take pictures of the table, which she's decorated beautifully with candles and pine branches. Together, we cut the nougat, baked a Camembert cheese with cherry tomatoes, and put on Rigoberta Bandini's record in the background. One by one, we approached the Christmas tree to leave our gifts, which were many and small. Because it's details, precise things, that make us think of each other. We had dinner. My cousin told us a story that never ends, as always. Reim. My mother says she's already tipsy after just one glass of wine. Even so, we brought out the cava and toasted.