The Year I Finally Stood My Ground

But gratitude is a funny thing; it tends to evaporate when it becomes an expectation. Last year was the breaking point when my cousin Silas complained that the stuffing wasn’t “moist enough” while he sat on my sofa watching football.

Not one person offered to wash a dish, and as I stood alone in the kitchen at midnight scrubbing a roasting pan, I realized I was a glorified caterer in my own home. So, when the group chat exploded after my cancellation, I wasn’t surprised by the anger, but I was surprised by the lack of empathy.

My sister, Beatrix, was the one who led the charge for the “alternative” Christmas. She told everyone that I was being “difficult” and “dramatic” over a few dollars. She managed to convince my brother, Julian, and our various cousins to pile into her much smaller apartment in the city. They didn’t invite me, and for the first time in my adult life, I was facing a December 25th with nothing but a microwave meal and silence.

The days leading up to the holiday were strange and hollow. I didn’t have to fight the crowds at the grocery store or worry about whether I had enough folding chairs. I spent my evenings reading by the fire, trying to convince myself that I was enjoying the peace. But every time I saw a festive commercial or heard a carol on the radio, I felt like a castaway. I had stood up for myself, which felt right, but the cost of that dignity was a heavy, suffocating loneliness.

On Christmas Eve, the weather turned from a picturesque snowfall into a full-blown Midwestern blizzard. The wind howled against the siding of my house, and the power flickered ominously.

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