After school the children left in little groups， chattering about the great day yet to come when long-hoped-for two-wheelers and bright sleds would appear beside their trees at home. She lingered， watching them bundle up and go out the door. I sat down in a child-sized chair to catch my breath， hardly aware of what was happening， when she came to me with outstretched hands， bearing a small white box， unwrapped and slightly soiled， as though it had been held many times by unwashed， childish hands. She said nothing. “For me？” I asked with a weak smile. She said not a word， but nodded her head. I took the box and gingerly opened it. There inside， glistening green， a fried marble hung from a golden chain. Then I looked into that elderly eight-year-old face and saw the question in her dark brown eyes. In a flash I knew—she had made it for her mother， a mother she would never see again， a mother who would never hold her or brush her hair or share a funny story， a mother who would never again hear her childish joys or sorrows. A mother who had taken her own life just three weeks before.
I held out the chain. She took it in both her hands， reached forward， and secured the simple clasp at the back of my neck. She stepped back then as if to see that all was well. I looked down at the shiny piece of glass and the tarnished golden chain， then back at the giver. I meant it when I whispered， “Oh， Mafia， it is so beautiful. She would have loved it.” Neither of us could stop the tears. She stumbled into my arms and we wept together. And for that brief moment I became her mother， for she had given me the greatest gift of all： herself.
1961年的那个圣诞节，我在俄亥俄州的一个小镇教学。我们三年级班里的27个学生，都热切地期待着互赠礼品的那个重大日子。
一棵挂着闪亮金丝和华丽彩纸的圣诞树装饰着教室一角，而另一角放着孩子们用胖乎乎、脏兮兮的小手把纸板涂上广告色做成的马槽。有人还把带来的娃娃放在纸板槽的稻草上，以代表小耶稣。只要轻轻拉一根小绳，你就会听到这个金发碧眼的娃娃说：“我叫苏茜。”但这些没什么关系。一个小男孩抗议说：“耶稣是男孩！”尽管如此，苏茜还是留下来了。