It lies among papers and documents as if it were quite ordinary. But it isn't. Every time we take it out of the drawer, I straighten it a little first, because the edge is already curled. It shows a little girl with a shy smile and an oversized coat. Santa Claus is standing next to her. His beard is standing a little on end and his coat is already worn. There is weariness in his eyes, but also warmth. The little girl is my mother, Lidija.
She grew up in a time when there was no choice. When people went to the shops not because they wanted something, but because they needed something. In the house, they looked after bread, milk and firewood for the winter. Nothing was taken for granted. Nothing was thrown away. Every thing had its value because it was not always available. The children learned early that life is not always easy and that you have to respect what you have.
December was not for shopping, but for preparation. At school, carols were practised, teachers cut out decorations and parents helped as much as they could. No one had much, but everyone contributed something. Everyone gave a part of themselves. On the day of the event, the children sat in the House of Culture in their jackets. Sometimes it was cold. They warmed their hands with the help of their own breath. Their shoes were often from older brothers or sisters, but nobody complained about that. No one asked for more. They were all waiting for the same moment.
When there was a knock on the door and it opened, Santa entered. A little tired, a little clumsy, but for the children he was like a miracle. It was proof that someone was thinking of them. When he called his mother's name, she slowly stood up. Her heart was pounding. She was afraid she would stumble or do something wrong, but she went.
She held a small package in her hand; light and inconspicuous, but it meant everything to her. In that moment, she did not feel like a child who had little, but like a child who had enough.
When she got home, she didn't open it straight away. First, she put it on the table as something precious, something deserving of time and respect. Later, she realised that there were sweets inside. Some sweets - just right. She remembered her grandmother, who used to buy her sweets on the wagon. Always five decagrams. No more, because there were no more. Because you had to be careful, because you had to have the right measure.
My mother told me that she never felt poor. She learned that joy is not in the amount of things you have, that happiness doesn't grow as your wants increase, and that enough really can be enough. She learned that moderation is not sacrifice, but the wisdom of appreciating little and finding richness in it.
When she talks about her childhood today, she does not talk about what she did not have. She is talking about people; how they helped each other, how they shared, how they stuck together and how they made enough out of little. Santa Claus was not the main character in the photograph. The main heroes were everyone behind him: the teachers who stayed after school, the parents who contributed as much as they could, and the grandmothers who weighed five decagrams and packed love into them.
Mum has grown into a person who never asks for too much, who knows how to be grateful, who respects the efforts of others and who never forgets that nothing in life can be taken for granted. She passed that on to me. When I look at that photograph today, I see not just a little girl with Father Frost, but roots. I realise where I come from. I understand why I know how to appreciate the little things and how I know that you do not have to have a lot to be rich.
When I look at my mother in the picture today, I know that her strength is not in what she had, but in the fact that she never demanded anything. She never wanted more for herself than was possible. She never looked over her shoulder at what others had. She learnt to live with little and to create security for me out of it. When I sometimes find myself wanting too much, restless and not satisfied, I think of her as a little girl with a little wrapper in her hands. And then I calm down. Because I know that she has given me something that time cannot take away: the ability to be happy without excess.
Zala Krupljan, 23. 12. 2025
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