It’ll just be twelve this year,” Ashley said, her eyes never leaving the little notepad she was scribbling on. She had her pen moving like she was running a meeting, not sitting at my dining table on a Tuesday evening. My parents, my brothers, their wives, and the kids—plus us, of course.
“So you’ll host.”
The words came out smooth, like it wasn’t even a question.
“My dad doesn’t eat pork anymore, so maybe turkey and beef. My mom likes the guest room at the end of the hall.
She says it’s quieter. The kids can sleep in the den.
You still have those fold-out couches, right?”
I sat with my hands around my water glass, cool against my palms, letting her list off one expectation after another.
She didn’t look up. Fred sat there too—my son—tapping his fork against his plate, but not saying much. He didn’t correct her.
He never does.
I listened as she moved from food to bedrooms and then to decorations. “Oh, and maybe fewer candles this year.
My brother’s daughter gets headaches. Maybe you could do more lights outside instead.”
She said it like I was her employee.
I took a slow sip of water and set the glass back down on the coaster.
Then I smiled. Not the polite smile I’d used for years, but the kind of smile that comes from knowing something no one else at the table expects. “Perfect,” I said.
“I’ll be traveling this Christmas.
You and your family can handle it.”
Ashley froze, her pen mid-stroke. Fred finally looked up from his fork.
“I’m sorry. What?” Ashley said, her voice sharper now, as if I’d said the wrong line in a script she thought I knew by heart.
“I’ll be gone December 23rd through New Year’s Day,” I said evenly.
“So you and your family can do whatever you like.”
The room went quiet. Not angry quiet. Quiet like someone had dropped a dish on a tile floor.
Ashley blinked, waiting for me to soften, to laugh it off, to explain I was joking.
But I didn’t. I stood, gathered the side plates from the table, and carried them into the kitchen.
Neither of them followed. I rinsed the dishes under warm water, dried my hands, and hung the towel back neatly.
Ashley still hadn’t spoken.
Fred looked like he wanted to, but no words came. The difference this time wasn’t just in what I said. It was in the fact that I meant it.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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