I opened the wrapping paper to reveal a yellow cleaning basket and an apron - the Christmas present I will never forget

It was the first time I met Judy. She was a friend of my in-laws then, and by "friend" I mean she cleaned their house, so probably knew more about their relationship than they did. Judy was in her 60s, divorced and living alone in an apartment on an estate around the corner from their red brick cottage. She had two sons but, as a child of divorced parents myself, I knew not to ask where they were.

It was the day before Christmas, and one of my first away from home. As a child, I shared all the essential holidays between the parents, but I always preferred to be with my mother. My parents had divorced partly (I believe) because my mother was a hopeless wife. My dad wanted someone to pour the drinks and skewer the sausages at parties, then wash up at the end. My mother wanted to put up shelves and knock down walls with a sledgehammer. Towards the end of her life, she had learned to drive a truck. I still wonder why they got married.

All that to say I didn't usually do the tour on Christmas Eve so I don't m I certainly wasn't expecting Judy to buy me a present.

You could tell she was expecting us from the speed with which she opened the front door. We sat at her dining room table while she walked away to put on a Christmas tape. On the table in front of us was a plate of salmon sandwiches and a dying poinsettia. Judy then pulled two presents out of a plastic bag and placed them on the table, insisting that we open them on the spot before turning to pour the sherry. We suggested we wait until Christmas Day, but since she didn't turn around, we thought about it. I watched as my ex opened his – a red sweater, the wrong size. Then I opened mine.

It was an unwrapable shape, so she kind of wrapped it in tissue paper and twisted the ends to that it looks like boiled candy. I untwisted those ends and slid it across the table: it was a yellow plastic cleaning basket, containing shoe polish spray, a cleaning brush, two microfiber cloths, and two types of antibacterial cleaner. Hidden underneath and wrapped in another piece of fabric was a green apron bearing the name of a local grocery store.

As a child of divorced parents, you are also often confronted with domestic situations of variable but immediate pain at too young an age, so you quickly learn to hide what you really feel, that is, to lie quickly. Lying is good or bad, depending on when and how you use it. “Fantastic,” I said. "I always run out of this stuff." Then I added, "Actually, I don't own an apron." Strictly speaking, neither was wrong.

Judy said she thought they were helpful given that we (my ex and I) spend a lot of time together. Then: "Just think of it as" for the future? Finally, she picked up her small glass of sherry and – in a way that suggested she wasn't used to it – held it up. Naturally, we raised ours as well.

We finished our drinks while Judy tried to get us to talk, probably so we wouldn't leave. I then offered to put the glasses away, but she shook her head. "Something for me to do when you're gone," she said smiling. Within months, of course, we had broken up. I never saw Judy again, but I still use the apron.