She started her speech from the blue chair. A bit drunk. A bit teary. A bit happy.

‘Everyone else sees us as whores and junkies, but not you,’ she said to us. ‘You guys make us feel special.’ Amidst the tinsel and tables heaving with Christmas cheer we caught each other’s eyes and welled up at her words. ‘You don’t think the girls appreciate you but they do,’ she continued. We handed out festive serviettes to use as tissues.

Sally played Christmas songs, to our general dismay (but, to her great delight, we sang along in places). The puppy played with the baby, sharing toys and slobber. Crackers were pulled, we groaned under the weight of the food in our bellies and the women swirled in new dresses, almost obscured by the piles of paper. All wrapped up together, we were content.

A young woman came in late in the day and was brought out the back where I was sneaking a quiet minute in the chaos. I’d never seen her before. ‘I’ve been raped, and bashed and held captive for four days’, she said. ‘He broke my cheekbone but the worst thing is that he took all my money for Christmas. Everything. I’ve got no money for presents. I’ve got nothing.’ She dissolved.

I gave her the bag of presents we’d given every woman, and a new dress and she threw herself at me, her whole body shaking with sobs of happiness. Her gratitude was overwhelming and I cried with her as she clung me. I cried as she marveled at the gifts I was lucky enough to hand over to her. But she gave me far more than I gave her. My gift didn’t come wrapped this year. It came in the thankful hug of a beaten woman, and I was deeply, profoundly, grateful for it. Happy Christmas to me.