Like many Jewish families, the Wolfsons take Christmas extremely seriously. Latkes and smoked salmon are served before homemade cranberry sauce and brussels sprouts. My dad’s hand-painted menorah, which he made during the ceramics cafe boom of the early 2000s, sits proudly underneath the Christmas tree.
As such, I had never missed a Christmas with the family – although there had been some near misses. In 2019, we spent Christmas by my dad’s hospital bed after his stroke – us sipping on hospital canteen gingerbread lattes, him having Christmas dinner in the guise of vanilla-scented protein, fed through a tube. In 2020, I saw my family only from six feet away, double-masked and on the doorstep. I delivered presents, but they were not opened for a few days, to let any stray virus dissipate.
