I stared at it for a long time, the phone heavy in my hand, the tiny bubbles of a new notification refusing to appear. The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and burnt toast. Outside, an inflatable snowman bent and stretched in the wind, as if apologizing on behalf of everyone.
I wasn't sure what she meant by "immediate family," since I was her daughter, so I asked who would be there. After a few hours, she finally replied, "Just Ryan, Melanie, and the kids. That's easier. You know how busy it can be otherwise."
Ryan is my brother. Two years older, a golden boy from birth. The type who gets away with double parking and makes the security guard laugh. Three kids, very boisterous, but somehow they never cause chaos. Just energy. My kids are a bit quieter, a bit more sensitive, and somehow they're always the ones who are too much.
We've spent Christmas at my parents' house every year since Ila, my eldest daughter, was born. For eleven years, we've all huddled in their lavishly decorated living room, watched Dad fall asleep during the elf party, eaten Mom's overcooked ham, and pretended everything was fine. Glass baubles, an angel with a crooked halo, the same ceramic nativity scene with a donkey missing an ear. The whole tradition teeters between habit and denial. But this year, my children, Ila and Mike, weren't there because there wasn't enough room.
I didn't answer. I didn't object. Not then. I just sat there. The silence was like a pillow on my face: soft, polite, suffocating. Nate, my husband, said maybe they were just feeling overwhelmed. Maybe it wasn't personal. But Nate has never been the most important person in my family. He gets invited to everything. He gets polite smiles. I get sideways glances when Mike refuses to hug someone, or when Ila refuses cake.
I didn't tell the children. I told them we'd have a quiet Christmas this year. Just the four of us. They were disappointed, but they didn't ask any questions. They'd learned that. Ila traced a line of frost on the window with her finger and asked if we could make some more hot chocolate. Mike lined up his toy cars in perfect rows, as if he were building an uncontrollable racetrack.
Nevertheless, I packed the car on Christmas Eve. I wrapped all the presents I had for my parents, Ryan, and his kids. I told Nate I wanted to show him around town and that I just had to be nice. He didn't object. He carried the heaviest bags and kissed me on the forehead, as if I needed permission to be nice.
We arrived around 3 p.m. Their street was already packed with cars. I had to park halfway. That was my first clue. The second was that the front door was wide open, despite the freezing cold. I could hear Mariah Carey from the sidewalk.
I hadn't even stepped onto the porch before I was inside. All the lights were on. The fireplace was crackling. Laughter drifted from the living room, and Ryan's children were everywhere: wrapping paper flying, toys scattered across the floor, music blaring from the speakers. Mom was taking pictures, Dad was pouring wine. In real glasses, not regular glasses. Melanie took a picture of herself under the Christmas tree in the same pajamas she stubbornly calls "tradition," even though she's been wearing them for three years.
There's no room, huh?
I turned around, walked back to the car, and opened the trunk. Nate didn't say a word. I packed everything back up. Everyone. The price tags fell off, as if they were looking away. We drove home in silence. I didn't cry. I wasn't even angry. It was over. As we pulled into the driveway, the neighbor's porch light came on, like an unsolicited signal.
The next morning, I decided that if they couldn't find us a place to spend the holidays, I'd make a spot available online. And I tagged them all, one by one.
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