I didn’t argue when my son told me I wasn’t welcome for Christmas. I smiled, nodded, and wished him well, even as something quietly cracked inside my chest. Years of small sacrifices lined up in my mind like receipts I’d never meant to total—late payments covered, furniture bought, emergencies handled without question. I left his house with dignity intact, got into my car, and drove home through streets glowing with holiday lights meant for other families. I told myself this was adulthood, that children grow up and traditions change. Still, the silence that followed me home felt heavier than any argument could have been.
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