“The Year Christmas Got a New Home”

The next morning, I called Lisa first. “Your mom is not happy,” she said. “I figured,” I sighed. “I just can’t do it this year.” She paused. “Then let me handle it. I’ll host.” I blinked. “Really?” She laughed. “I’ve got the space, and honestly… it might even be fun. We can mix things up.”

I felt a weight lift. “What about Mom?” “She’ll survive,” Lisa said. “Or she won’t. Either way, you need a break.”

Lisa moved quickly. She sent a group text with a potluck sign-up, assigned decorations, and called it a “team effort.” Some relatives supported it; some didn’t. My mom didn’t call at all, which felt strange. I half expected her to show up on my doorstep with a fruitcake and a lecture.

On December 22, there was a knock. My mom looked smaller than I remembered, worn in a way I couldn’t describe. “I was in the area,” she said, which I suspected wasn’t true, but I let her in. The kids were on the couch, absorbed in a Christmas movie, and for a moment, the room felt softer.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” I said. “I’m just overwhelmed.” She sat on the edge of the couch, hands folded. “I thought you were being lazy.” I raised an eyebrow. “Thanks for that vote of confidence.” She winced. “I said I thought that. Lisa told me what you’ve been handling. I didn’t know.” “I told you I was tired.” “Not how tired.” I considered it. “Would it have changed anything?” She looked at her hands. “Maybe not. That’s on me.”

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