Protecting the Heart of a Child During the Holidays
This morning I looked at my youngest son.
He is adopted, and he knows he has another mommy out there somewhere. He doesn’t know the complex parts yet. He doesn’t understand how he didn’t start out as mine—how we used to meet his mom for the holidays at the DHS office, or how, when we pulled into that parking lot, he would kick his feet with excitement to see her. The first time he did that he was about a year old. I remember being floored. He couldn’t talk yet, but he knew. Honestly, that’s when I knew I couldn’t ever be dishonest about adoption.
He was innately hers from the start. And truthfully, I know he always will be in some way.
During those days, I stayed quiet. I couldn’t tell which way our case would go, and I so desperately wanted to be part of Kaleb’s life if he went home with her. Even on the days I wished she would be healed, try harder—or even step away so we wouldn’t be left in limbo—I chose silence.
Now, years past that chapter of his life, I remind Kaleb only of how much his mom loved him—and how much I loved her too. I didn’t love every choice she made, but the one that mattered most to me was the day she chose to bring my son into this world, knowing full well she would struggle to care for him.
That is what I tell Kaleb about her.
Because I remember Christmas when I was little.
When you are a child of divorced or absent parents, the holidays can be especially hard.
Even as a grown adult and a court reporter, the most difficult part of domestic relations cases was always the Judge’s ruling—because from that moment forward, a child would no longer wake up to both mom and dad. And we were the ones making that final, in court.
Maybe it’s a childhood wound of mine, but I carry deep empathy for the children—and parents—who navigate this season every year. Only one parent gets the glimpses of Christmas morning: the jaw-dropping expressions when a child sees a half-empty glass of milk, cookies gone, and carrots vanished.
Yes, this is survivable.
But as a biological child, stepchild, foster mom, and adoptive parent, I can tell you this plainly:
One of the fastest ways to damage a child’s holiday is to make the custody agreement about yourself.
When you are the primary parent, you carry an immense load. But unless you have been the child at the center of a custody agreement, it is impossible to fully understand the pain a child carries when a parent is absent during the holidays.
I don’t believe two people who cannot be together should stay together “for the kids.” That doesn’t create a happy childhood either. But I do believe the sacrifices you make for your children should be silent ones.
It’s tempting to explain all the ways the other parent has failed—and all the ways you’ve stepped in to fill the gap. But think back to high school, when someone you cared about walked away. You probably carried the blame, even if it had nothing to do with you.
Children do the same thing—quietly, artlessly.
When they hear negative talk about a parent, they don’t process it as truth about the adult. They internalize it as something lacking in themselves. Being asked to listen to slander about a biological parent is like being asked to gossip about the one person they feel an uncontrollable devotion and loyalty toward.
I would argue that sometimes this devotion runs even deeper than parent-to-child. Adults have ways to justify betrayal. Children don’t. For them, loyalty is black and white.
What’s worse is that many children won’t stop you—or tell you how much it hurts—because the same loyalty they feel toward the absent parent, they feel toward you too.
So if you’re carrying the load this Christmas—buying the presents, filling the stockings hung by the chimney, setting out cookies for Santa—you are pouring love on behalf of two parents. That matters. And I see you.
But don’t try to collect recognition early by reminding a child of all the ways their biological parent didn’t show up.
I’ve had foster children whose parents hadn’t shown up in years, and they were still waiting, still hoping, still loving them. A child’s love for neglectful—or even abusive—parents mirrors the story of the prodigal son: unfathomable forgiveness, longing, and purity of heart (Luke 15:11–32).
If you ever wonder whether the world sees you, know this: we do. Most people don’t say anything because the world is trained to speak more on injustice than on awe.
But the mark you’re imprinting doesn’t show up right away.
It shows up in adulthood.
Children grow up and they remember who didn’t unload the burden of an absent parent onto them. Who carried the weight quietly. Who loved in the shadows without needing to be seen.
And when they realize that, they show up at your door for the holidays—not out of obligation, but because they want to.
Because when there was an empty, aching space in their heart, you didn’t shine a spotlight on it. Your quiet integrity rested like a gentle hand on the wound—steady and protective—holding the pain long enough for healing to begin.
