CHRISTMAS WAS AROUND THE CORNER, and the plantation hummed with anticipation. The Christmas season was my favorite time of the year. At Livingston, we hosted the most extravagant banquet in the county. People came from near and far to attend. I spent months planning for the banquet and put my heart and soul into every detail. Father allowed me free rein with the planning and gave me an unlimited budget. It was important to me to make Christmas memorable for every guest who visited.

The slaves and I decorated the mansion in holly and greenery, from the pillars marching along the front of the house to the spiral staircase, and the fireplace mantel in every room.

Our slaves’ faces shone with a joy and excitement matching my own. They’d replaced their usual songs with Christmas carols, and I heard them throughout the plantation. My spirit soared. Each year at Christmas, Father made sure all the slaves received two sets of new clothes along with two pairs of new shoes. I ensured each slave received a special, more frivolous gift, be it new hair ties or perfume for the women, pipes, tobacco, and cigars for the men, and toys for the children. Everyone received some molasses candy wrapped with their gifts. I found personal delight in making the rounds to hand out the gifts. Giving is the greatest pleasure in life and the glee on their faces was beyond rewarding. Mammy, Mary Grace, and I would tear up the kitchen making Christmas treats and traditional dishes. These are my fondest memories.

This crisp morning before Christmas Eve, the three of us were baking in the kitchen house. I was up to my wrists in flour and daydreaming of spending these moments with my own mother. I considered how my life would have been with her in it—having her to go to about things that troubled my heart; sharing with her how my heart ached over Father’s rejection of me; seeking her advice on my growing feelings for Bowden—

“Penny for your thoughts.” Mary Grace tossed a sprinkling of sugar at me from the mixture in her bowl.

The sweet dust brushed the side of my face and I smiled at her. “I was thinking how grateful I am for you and Mammy. And I was thinking about my own mother and what it would be like if she were here.”

“She’d be mighty proud of you, chile.” Mammy beamed at me.

“Do you think?” I asked in a voice tinged with longing, searching her eyes.

The kitchen went quiet, as if a thick blanket had settled over us.

“Angel gal, your mama be jus’ lak you.”

“How, Mammy? How are we alike?” I begged, desperate for more information on the woman who was but a phantom to me. Never had I so much as seen a portrait of her—not even her handwriting. Was it Father’s intention to erase her existence from the earth?

“She is in your smile. Dose dark green eyes and dat silky dark mane of yours is de image of your mama. Like luking in a mirror.”

“Oh, Mammy!” This knowledge thrilled me. “What else, Mammy?”

But Mammy stiffened and ran a hand across the back of her neck. “Dat be all, chile,” she said, becoming tight-lipped.

Confused, I wanted to besiege her with questions, but I knew Mammy, and the firm set of her jaw meant I would get no further. I glanced at Mary Grace, who shrugged and smiled as if to say, “I’m sorry.” I glared at Mammy’s back as she turned away. I was done living in the dark about my mother. I was determined to get answers, in whatever way it took to get them.