This is the story of the greatest Christmas present I never got.

It begins in 1983, when toy company Coleco released an adorable new doll called the Cabbage Patch Kid. On its oversized head, a winning smile fought its way through pudgy cheeks. Its fabric body, arms open wide awaiting a hug, was covered in dimples. On the butt of each Cabbage Patch doll was printed the signature of originator Xavier Roberts, and included in each box was an adoption certificate with the doll's birthdate and a name like "Virgil Boris" or "Honora Clytemnestra."

Caleco, though, underestimated the fervor with which American children would clasp the Cabbage Patch Kid to their collective bosoms and didn't manufacture enough dolls to meet the considerable demand. By October, fistfights were breaking out at stores. In December, there were riots. The dolls made the cover of Newsweek.

In 1983, however, I was a New Orleans elementary student, blissfully unaware of the lengths to which parents were resorting. I knew, only, that I wanted a Cabbage Patch Kid for Christmas, desperately, more than I wanted the Earth to continue in its orbit.

But I might as well have been wishing for a pet unicorn.

The dolls were hard for even the most indulgent, determined parent to get, but my parents were decidedly ... not. They were the kind of parents who gave me a wool flokati instead of a sleeping bag to take on sleepovers, the kind who served beef tongue for dinner because it was 1. meat but, more importantly, 2. cheap. Mine were wholly unrelated to the parents who'd even consider calling every Kmart in a 50-mile radius and then driving halfway across town to wait in line for hours for the honor of forking over $25 for a doll, for crying out loud.

Hope, however, springs eternal in a 7-year-old heart, and I snuck out of my room late Christmas Eve and carefully peeked through the banister, hoping to catch a glimpse of Santa Claus putting a gift of exactly the right size under the tree.

What I saw, instead, was my dad assembling my brother's present from "Santa."

Well, so much for St. Nick, I thought, but all's not lost.

I still came down that Christmas morning believing I might end the day a proud adoptive parent.

When I got to my biggest present, though, my heart sunk. It was shaped all wrong, like a coffin.

My dad watched me expectantly as I opened it.

The doll inside looked a bit like a Cabbage Patch Kid. She had brown yarn hair, and dimples in her cheeks. But she wasn't as soft, and the fabric of her skin was a darker color than her wan face. There was no adoption certificate in the box. For final confirmation, I turned her over and checked the butt. No signature.

I started crying, then, and I've never seen my dad look so confused.

"It's the same doll," he said.

I shook my head.

Ashamed but still clinging to pretense, I took the doll outside to play with the neighbors. One girl cradled a Cabbage Patch Kid with blond braids.

"Is that a real Cabbage Patch Kid?" she asked, pointing at my doll, whose arms were stiff at her side.

"Yes," I squeaked.

"Why are the hands so dark?"

"They got dirty when I was playing with her."

"Already?" she asked, dripping suspicion.

I brought the doll back inside and put it down in my room. A few days later, my dad asked why I never played with it. I couldn't tell him. I knew he couldn't understand.

If only we were richer, I thought. If only we weren't so weird and foreign ...

A month went by, and then another couple of weeks, and I'd mostly forgotten about the doll, was barely even avoiding playing with girls who had Cabbage Patch Kids.

Then one February morning, my dad came into my room at an ungodly early hour, unable to even wait for me to wake up. He sat on the edge of my bed, holding something behind him.

"They got more in the store," he said, handing me the box.

I gasped.

Inside was the most beautiful Cabbage Patch Kid I had ever seen, a little girl with red pigtails, green eyes and a frilly green-and-white dress.

Esmerelda Marie, the birth certificate read.

Well, I thought, impenetrable to negativity, never mind the name.

I cried then, again, but this time from happiness.

I still remember the feeling of that doll in my arms, the fulfillment of my heart's deepest desire.

Tell me a gift is a material thing, and I'll agree that's true, but right then, it felt a lot more like love.

I'll remember that present, always, not for the money spent but for that feeling, the feeling of someone seeing straight into your heart. I didn't get what I wanted that Christmas, but it still was my greatest gift, that understanding.

My hope for us all is that this year and always, when giving or receiving, we see and are seen that same way, with those same eyes of love.

For it is then that we find the greatest gifts of all.

To learn more about Georgia Garvey, visit GeorgiaGarvey.com.

Photo credit: Arnaldo Aldana at Unsplash