The Last Christmas: Dying Her eyes said she was hungry, but my wife, Melissa, would never complain. She wouldn’t tell me she didn’t have enough to eat. She and I were always the last to eat. The kids were first. I know they were hungry too. I felt guilty taking the last spoonful of the potted meat. But that was the only thing I had consumed all day. We were at the end. The last can. It toppled from my hand, clanking to the floor in my helpless defeat. I was failing my family. We wouldn’t make it much longer. Days, weeks, I knew this. Melissa knew this. The kids, well, they were kids. They knew what they were told. And at four- and six years old, we told them very little. We were fortunate, in a sense, for a lot of things. The location of our home was perfect; at the onset, we had an ample supply of food and a source to get more nearby. We had a fireplace in the basement family room to keep us warm; and most importantly, we had each other.
