This year, though, something felt different. Hannah had been distant for months, and Mark seemed to call less often. Still, I told myself, “Families get busy, people grow,” and I didn’t want to be the kind of mother who made them feel guilty for living their lives.
A week before Christmas, I called to ask what time I should come over. Hannah answered. Her voice was polite but held no warmth. “Linda, we’re spending Christmas at my mom’s this year,” she said. “It’ll be easier for everyone. You can stay home and relax.”
My heart dropped, but I forced a smile even though she couldn’t see it. “Oh, I see. That sounds nice,” I replied softly. She thanked me quickly and hung up before I could say anything else.
ad
After the call, I sat at my kitchen table in silence. The house was quiet except for the clock ticking. I looked at the decorations I had already put up—garlands on the fireplace, stockings hung neatly, the tree twinkling in the corner. For years, I had done it all for them so that when they arrived, it would feel like home. Now, it just felt empty.
