The Christmas I Stopped Sacrificing Myself
They say Christmas is about giving, but no one warns you it can also strip away denial and cut straight to the truth. I learned that lesson at seventy, sitting at a long dining table under twinkling holiday lights, in a house my son called his own—but that still carried my name on every legal document.
I had spent the day cooking, as mothers do, turning muscle memory into love measured in casseroles and pies. When the plates were cleared and the wine glasses refilled, my daughter-in-law stood and announced it was time for gifts. She handed boxes to her parents, friends, even the piano teacher and the woman who cleaned their house.
I waited, quietly, hands folded. Nothing. When I finally asked, she smiled politely and said my gift must have been “lost in transit.” My son smirked, lifted his glass, and joked about patience. Laughter rippled—just enough to sting.
Driving home later, I understood something I’d avoided for years. I was not cherished. I was convenient. Needed when a mortgage required padding, when property taxes were due, when a roof leaked or a babysitter was required. But when usefulness wasn’t needed, I didn’t exist. Brutal. Precise. Unavoidable.
Four days later, they were at my door, frantic. By then, I had already acted. On Christmas night, I had opened a blue folder I hadn’t touched in years: the closing documents for the five-bedroom house on Parker Lane. Years ago, I had sold my own home to help my son and daughter-in-law secure financing. The title remained in my name, with a clause allowing me to terminate occupancy with thirty days’ notice.
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