As the elevator door opened I was met with an aroma that immediately made me think of Christmas. It was a mixture of cinnamon, citrus, and cloves. At least that’s what I imagined. My childhood had been much more austere. Less Christmas cheer and more paid companionship by a host of nannies while my parents were out saving the world. I don’t know why they thought it would be a better idea to leave me behind than take me, but that’s what they did. Almost every day of my life was spent on my own with people paid to look after me.

Not only was I overwhelmed by the delicious smells, but my ears perked up at the joyful music that danced through the apartment. It wasn’t until I set my bag down that I realized the singing wasn’t from the radio. It was from Esme. There they were. My girls. It hit me so hard, like a gut punch when I looked up and found them stringing a popcorn garland around the tree. Esme was so carefree and happy. Mel did that. She gave me back my little girl.

I stood and watched them for a while, so engrossed in their task, they didn’t even notice me. The lights they’d already strung twinkled and the light bounced off the large windows in front of the tree. Mel had a chair pulled up tight to the tree and Esme handed her ornaments. Some of the ornaments looked homemade, like they’d just been made today. Tracings of their hands made to look like birds, something made of clay, and others that went along with the crystal and glass ornaments I’d had Rachel pick up earlier.

This felt right. I’d sent Rachel to get the ornaments I got every year. The ones my parents had for the photo ops of the perfect family in front of their tree. Looking at my girls now, I shook my head. I’d fallen into my parents’ pattern again. Keeping up appearances, even in my own house. This was better. It felt better, like a real family. Was that what we were now? Were we a family? Would Mel still be here, if I weren’t paying her?

Mel glanced over her shoulder and caught my eye. A huge smile spread across her face.

“You’re home,” she said. Esme turned and ran to me, jumping into my arms. Mel came over and wrapped her arms around me too. I breathed them both in. The two women in my life, I didn’t care if Mel wouldn’t be here otherwise. I’d think about it later. Worry about it later. Right now, I just wanted to enjoy this. The baggage of the day melted away when I had them in my arms, and I’d do whatever was necessary, to keep them there.

I had a feeling this Christmas would be better than any I’d had before. Growing up, I despised Christmas. Maybe that was why I preferred to keep it impersonal, mimicking the tree my parents chose. Everyone always thought Christmas must have been the most amazing thing when you had parents like mine. They were so generous, so loving, so caring. But no-one knew who they really were.

My parents’ guilt and shame at how my father made his money in the past, ate away at my father. It infected his mind and turned his altruism into a disease. One that robbed me of a childhood and of loving, caring parents. I was never allowed anything of my own. Every toy, every gift, every personal possession would be taken from me the moment they felt I cared too much about it. “Someone else deserves it more.” “You already have so much.” Those were the refrains of my childhood. And if I protested too much? I’d felt the sting of my father’s hand more than once. So much for charity starting at home.

My closets were bare except for my school uniforms and three sets of clothes. When any of my nannies commented on my lack of toys, books, clothes or anything else like that, they were out, replaced by the next one. I’d sit in a barren room with nothing but a bed and a lamp and stare out the windows at other kids riding their bikes or jumping rope outside. My grandmother, perhaps sensing that something was amiss, gave me a book.

It was a standard children’s book, nothing special about it, but it was everything. I cherished it. I read it every night, tucking it under my pillow when I went to bed. I had every line committed to memory. Every picture, every bend and crease of the book. It was the one thing that was finally mine. She would bake with me, spend time with me, she’d been the only one who seemed to care about me for just being me. And when she died it became even more important to me. She was the only one who truly loved me. The only person who never wanted anything from me other than a hug and some help cracking the eggs.

Every year the tree was piled high with presents, but I knew none were for me. My parents would take pictures in front of them and do interviews about all their good work. And it was the same every year, “Our son Rhys would like to donate every gift he’s received to the less fortunate.” I was fine with it, it didn’t bother me at this point. But one year they brought in another child to accept a special gift I was to give away for a live Christmas special highlighting one year of the most generous donations from a single benefactor—my parents.

They handed it to me and brought me face to face with the little boy. He had scraggly hair, overly large clothes, but otherwise he could have been my mirror image. Same hair, same eyes, I smiled at him and he smiled back. Even then I knew how to play my part, but for him I was happy to give him something new.

Cameras trained on us, my mother handed the ornately wrapped present to me. The red and green bow sparkled with glitter and covered at least half the gift. As soon as I touched it, my hands trembled. I knew what was inside. I’d committed that book to memory, inside and out. Every aspect of it seared into my memory. I held it every day, read it every day.

“Give it to him. You must not be selfish. You already have so much,” my dad said from behind me, his grip on my shoulder tightening. I clutched it to my chest and my father squeezed my shoulder so hard it made me whimper, but I didn’t want to hand it over. It wasn’t until he jabbed the bruise I already had under my shirt that I let go of it.

I held it out to the boy and watched him rip into the paper. Each tear exposing what I already knew. They’d taken it from me. I lunged without thinking and my dad grabbed me, jamming his fist into my back, bringing tears to my eyes. I bit my tongue so hard the salty taste of blood flooded my mouth, but I held back my tears. I know what would happen if I let one fall. You can’t beat altruism into someone, but that didn’t mean my father didn’t try.

“You already have more than enough. It’s not for you,” he said. Nothing ever was. And that was the last day I lived with them. The last day I was home, not that there was much to go home to. They shipped me off to boarding school and I was still there when they died. Boarding school, where I could finally have some freedom, make friends and begin a life all my own.

When my parents died, people comforted and consoled me, offering their condolences for my loss. It seemed the world was mourning, but not me. People swore I’d be heartbroken. I didn’t know my parents as the charitable and good-hearted people everyone else saw. To me, they had a sickness. Making money in weapons, strip mining impoverished countries had made them wealthy, but the court of public opinion and investors sentiments became too harsh on them. They changed their ways, which benefited the world, but changed them. They were so driven by the need to make up for what they’d done that I didn’t even get a chance to have a real childhood. I was an instrument of their altruism, used to demonstrate how selfless they were. They’d withheld something that didn’t cost a thing, their love and affection.