Every year, I hosted Christmas. Weeks of planning menus, scheduling ovens, scrubbing every corner of the house. By mid-December, I was practically wearing a layer of flour. But this year? Work, kids, a messy house that never stayed clean for ten minutes—I hit a wall. I called my mom. “I won’t be hosting this year,” I said, as calmly as I could.
Her response was immediate. “I can’t believe you’d abandon your family like this!” That familiar heat flared in my chest—the one I feel when I’m treated like the family cruise director instead of a human being. I hung up before I said something I’d regret.
The next morning, my aunt texted: “Your mom says you’re ruining Christmas on purpose.” I stared at my phone. I hadn’t ruined anything. I just needed a break. Christmas isn’t supposed to feel like a second job.
I turned off my phone and took the kids to the park. The air was crisp, our breath fogging in front of us. Nora tugged my sleeve. “Are we still having Christmas?” she asked. I kissed her forehead. “Of course. Maybe a smaller one this year.”
By evening, my phone was flooded with missed calls—Mom, my cousin Lisa, my brother three states away. Instead of replying, I poured a glass of wine, sat by the tree, and let the quiet calm me.
The next day, I called Lisa. “Your mom’s on a warpath,” she warned. “I figured,” I sighed. “I just can’t do it this year.” She paused. “Then let me host. I’ll take it.”
Relief hit me like a snowstorm. “Really?”
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