“Oh.”

Grandma looks at me expectantly, excitement spilling out of her big hazel eyes.

“Thanks Grandma,” I respond. I wasn’t expecting this. Since Grandma was diagnosed with dementia, Mum has been in charge of her presents, which usually means some cash and a hastily signed card.

It’s been years since I’ve had a physical present.

I couldn’t even tell you what the last one was.

In my hand is a small box wrapped in glittery paper. Grandma certainly didn’t wrap this at any rate.

“What are you waiting for? Next Christmas? Hurry up!” she says hurriedly, the most animated I’ve seen her for a while.

Usually she’s moody and bitter on Christmas Day. The only shreds of her mind remaining burnt into bitterness; bitterness about being widowed, bitterness about being physically and mentally incapacitated, bitterness that her family don’t do enough for her.

Even though I see hard it is for my Mum. It’s never been enough.

Not even when she had her marbles.

Which is why I’m surprised she’s so excited about this. Her giddiness actually makes me feel slightly festive.

I unwrap it to find a velvet jewellery box and inside an antique gold locket. On the back is the inscription

_Elizabeth. Happy 21st Birthday. _

This locket is 70 years old.

I open the clasp and find a black and white picture of my grandparents. They’re smiling. They’re young. They’re happy.

“Thank you Grandma,” I say, feeling love flood in my chest. It’s the nicest thing she’s done in a while.

“Well, I’m not wearing it anymore,” she chuckles to herself before her eyes sort of glaze over and the fatigue seeps in again.

For a second I saw the Grandma I once knew, and that makes this Christmas feel more like the ones I used to know, even for just a moment.