The Year I Finally Stood My Ground

She didn’t apologize immediately; she just looked at me and said, “It was a disaster, Arthur.” They had tried to cram eighteen people into a space meant for four, and the infrastructure of her old apartment building simply gave up under the pressure.

Without a professional-grade kitchen and the organization I usually provided, the meal had fallen apart, and the burst pipe was the final nail in the coffin. They had spent the morning huddled under blankets, eating cold ham and realizing how much they had taken for granted.

I should have turned them away, or at least made them beg a little bit. But as I looked at my nieces and nephews shivering in the back of Julian’s SUV, my heart softened. I stepped aside and gestured for them to come in, the warmth of my entryway swallowing them up. “The heat is on, and I have plenty of wood for the fire,” I said quietly. They filed in, smelling of damp wool and failure, and the house was suddenly filled with the noise I thought I had lost.

Here is where the first real change happened. I didn’t go to the kitchen. I didn’t put on an apron, and I didn’t start barking orders about where people should sit. I went over to my armchair, sat down with my book, and stayed there. The room went silent as they realized I wasn’t going to jump into “host mode.” Beatrix looked at me, confused, and I simply smiled and said, “There’s a freezer full of food and a stove that works perfectly, but I’m on strike this year.”

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