There would of course be a rather beautifully decorated piece of driftwood, hung with homemade decorations and masses of twinkling white lights, simple and, thanks to Kirstie Allsopp, very cheap. Stockings bursting would hang on the ends of beds, and my eyes would be full of tears watching my children open presents they would no doubt fling to one side later. But Christmas would be full of them and for as long as possible it would be full of wonder and laughter. As my emptiness has grown over the years so has the impossibly perfect vision of my family Christmas. I know I shouldn't be like this, I know I should be a great aunt who spoils her nieces and nephews and who gets joy from seeing their rather wonderful faces and smiles, but this year I can't. To them, I'm sorry. But it hurts. The silence in my life is the silence of no children. I would have loved a partner, at times, but now I can accept that being without one has as many benefits as drawbacks. But I cannot make sense of not being a parent. I somehow feel like I squander my life without them. Like I ricochet silently from action to inaction, sometimes appearing successful, sometimes happy and sometimes content. This year I want – no, need – to face this head on. I've never truly been alone before, by choice. Once, many years ago, a lover went out on Christmas Eve to get my presents and returned the day after Boxing Day with a massive hangover and love bites on his belly. Not a great year. Alone, yes, but not by choice. This is the year I can allow myself to wallow. My gift to me this year is the time to feel this and, perhaps, accept it.I will never be a mother, or a grandmother. This life ends with me, no amount of overly humanised pooches will make it otherwise (they will of course get stockings, treats and perhaps an outfit). Children really must make sense of life, of being alive in a way that no job, career or other achievement can. I'm not doubting that there may be others who get great satisfaction, joy and love from these other pursuits but having children must surely be so life-affirming; they are living, breathing, laughing, joyous beings that have the capacity to love you back and to grow in ways that must be miraculous, infuriating and complex. That connection, full of love, is not something I have been able to build with anything else in my life. No job, no house, no object, no purpose; no aim or ambition or lover.I truly miss something I've never experienced and this year, on Christmas Day, I will try to put to bed this thing, this feeling that dominates so much of my mind-time.I live in a remote part of Andalusia in a very small village, a hamlet really, four or five old village houses. At Christmas it's quiet and quite empty, the perfect place to have this kind of reflection. I never cry. My sister asked me this year if my tear ducts had dried up; they haven’t, but I never truly believed that these tears were mine to cry. I have very little desire to feel more feminine or beautiful or to mourn proms, dresses or dances under the stars with a significant other – my truth is that being transgender denied me the choice of being a mother. And that's the important part, being a mother. I know I could have been a parent, but this body that I never chastise or call wrong could never allow me the joy of pregnancy, or the intimate bond of motherhood.So dear Mariah et al. I think you get the drift. I will return next year to auntie duties; I may even put festive ringlets in my hair and wear an inappropriate "Santa's Helper" costume (you know what I'm talking about here, M.C.) but, this year, it's nut roast and a spud for one. And maybe a tear or two and the acceptance that, although I can never have the life that I all too often see through "misty-rosy" lenses, I have this one and I should be thankful for it.