Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

We had a quiet day, just the two of us and our phones and text messages. Sue made bread. We had four kinds of cheese to go with her bread. We listened to Christmas music on the classical station. Sue gave me a book of Louise Glück's poetry, and we read it aloud to each other and I cried (it's ok, I often cry at poetry). We discovered a new series on Netflix, Bridgerton: interesting dynamics of caste, color, and gender. Turns Jane Austen on her head amusingly.

I was reminded of Christmas, 1995. My daughters, not yet officially adopted, were living with M'e Mpho Nthunya and me in Pietermaritzburg, South Africa. Angel was attending a formerly-white school filled with the children of professors and government workers. It was her first year of speaking English, of living among people of privilege. The teacher asked all the children to write down what they wanted for Christmas, and she would compile a list of their requests to send home to their parents. Angel had never been asked this before. When the list came home with her, there were all the children's requests: a Barbi doll, a Lego set, a remote control car. And Angel's request: "I want bread for everyone."

I knew then, without any further doubt, that she was my child. 

I want bread for everyone. And if possible, four or five kinds of cheese.