Every year, I host Christmas. I scrub for days, plan menus down to the minute, coordinate oven schedules, and usually carry a permanent dusting of flour by mid-December. This year, between my full-time job, the chaos of school schedules, and the house never staying clean for more than ten minutes, I hit a breaking point. I called my mom and, as calmly as I could, told her I wouldn’t be hosting.
She didn’t pause before snapping, “I can’t believe you’d abandon your family like this!” The familiar heat rose in my chest—the one that flares when I’m treated like a family event coordinator instead of a human being—so I ended the call before saying something I’d regret.
I turned off my phone and took the kids to the park. The air was crisp enough to see our breath, but the sunlight was gentle. Nora tugged on my sleeve. “Are we still having Christmas?” she asked. I kissed her forehead. “Of course. Maybe a smaller one this year.”
That evening, I checked my phone to find a flood of missed calls and messages—my mom, my cousin Lisa, my brother three states away, all likely rallied for a family intervention. Instead of responding, I poured a glass of wine and sat by the glow of the tree, letting the quiet sink in.
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