That night, I made myself a cup of tea and looked through old photo albums. Mark as a little boy opening presents, Paul carving the turkey, Hannah smiling when she first joined the family. My eyes stung with tears, but I kept flipping through the pages, whispering to myself, “It’s just one Christmas. It’s fine.” But deep down, it wasn’t fine. It wasn’t just about being alone; it was about being forgotten.
The next morning, I got a short call from Mark. His voice was full of guilt. “Mom, I hope you’re not upset. You know how Hannah’s mom likes to host. It’s just one year.”ad
“Of course, sweetheart. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine,” I said what mothers always say. When I hung up, I looked out the window. Snow was falling gently, coating the world in white. The neighborhood kids were building snowmen, and I could hear their laughter. For a moment, I felt like an outsider in my own life. Everyone had somewhere to be, and I was just here.
