I’ve always taken pride in being the heart of our family gatherings, especially during the holidays. Cooking was my way of uniting everyone, a tradition I held dear. Since Oliver, my husband, passed away, I’ve struggled to find the same energy and joy in cooking. I prepare just enough to get by, but the enthusiasm has been lacking—except during the holidays.
This Christmas was particularly meaningful for me. It would be the first time my son, John, and his wife, Liz, would be celebrating at my home. Liz had always spent the holidays with her own family before, which I completely understood. But this year, I was eager to see how she would blend into our traditions.
On Christmas Day, I woke up early, excited to prepare our traditional holiday meal—roast chicken, roasted potatoes, and all the side dishes John loved. It was a labor of love, and I wanted everything to be perfect.
However, when Liz walked into the kitchen, checking her cell phone, I felt a chill. She looked around, scrunching her nose as if something was off. I was already overwhelmed, trying to finish the meal, and her reaction stung.
“Hey, Kate,” she said, more critically than I expected. “Maybe we should just order food. Not everyone might enjoy what you’ve cooked. Christmas is about everyone enjoying it, right?”
Her words hurt deeply. I glanced at John, who was standing in the doorway, nibbling on a carrot. He avoided eye contact and stared into space. I fought back tears and tried to stay composed.
When dinner time arrived, the table was full of food. Despite Liz’s earlier comment, everyone seemed to enjoy the meal. John asked the table, “So, is everyone enjoying the food?”
His uncle, digging into the roasted potatoes, laughed. “Why wouldn’t we? Kate’s cooking is always fantastic!”
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