Every December, I used to transform my home into Christmas central. For days, I’d scrub, decorate, and plan every dish down to oven timing and garnish placement. I’d lose sleep over table settings and end up covered in flour before the first guest arrived. But this year, I reached my limit. Between my job, school chaos, and a house that never stayed clean, the thought of hosting again made my chest tighten.
So, I called my mom. Calmly, I told her I couldn’t host this year. She didn’t hesitate. “I can’t believe you’d abandon your family like this!” she snapped. Her words stung, but not because they were new — because they weren’t. I’d spent years being treated like the family’s default event planner instead of a daughter. I hung up before I said something I’d regret.
The next morning, my aunt texted: “Your mom’s telling everyone you’re deliberately ruining Christmas.” I just stared at my phone, exhausted. I wasn’t ruining anything. I just needed a break.
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