Until my wife’s tragic passing, holiday was the day of the year I loved the most.

But when I lost Jenny, it turned into a sad reminder of a lost bond. Some three years after her loss,

I noticed a fragile homeless woman on holiday Eve. She was in need of help,

and I gave her the groceries I had bought and my coat.

Whenever holiday approached, Jenny and I went into a shopping frenzy for

the party we organized for our family each year.

Three days before the dinner, Jenny called me on the phone to remind me to grab some wrapping paper with snowmen.

See, Jenny and I were high-school sweethearts. We didn’t have children, but still, our love was profound.

I sometimes felt guilt that we couldn’t be parents, but we had each other, and that was more than enough.

She was my world, and I was hers.

On that tragic night, as I was heading home with the wrapping paper and a bunch of other things for the party were looking forward to hosting, I received a call.

“Mr. Luke,” the person on the other side on the line said with a disturbed voice. “Your wife was involved in a car accident, you need to come to the hospital.”

Sadly, by the time I arrived, Jenny was already gone.

Out of nowhere, I found myself in a sterile hospital room, holding my loved one’s cold hand and crying my heart out.

Some two years later, I still couldn’t accept the reality and had a hard time accepting celebrating holiday.

I was walking home, but I entered random stores, delaying the arrival in the apartment that felt oddly silent. Jenny’s absence could still be felt heavily, and I hated that feeling.