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.
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.
I checked the weather app and saw that the city was getting hit even harder. I thought about Beatrix’s apartment, which was notoriously drafty and had a heater that worked only when it felt like it. Part of me felt a smug sense of “I told you so,” but that feeling was quickly replaced by a nagging worry.
Christmas morning arrived, and the world was buried in white. I made myself a cup of coffee and stared at the empty dining table where the centerpiece usually sat.
My phone was silent—no “Merry Christmas” texts, no photos of kids opening presents. I felt like I had been erased from the family history just because I asked for a little bit of help with the grocery bill. I sat down with a book, determined to have a “relaxing” day, but I couldn’t focus on the words.
Around noon, there was a faint, frantic thumping at my front door. I frowned, wondering who on earth would be out in this weather. When I pulled the door open, I found Silas standing there, covered in snow and looking absolutely miserable.
He was holding a bag of half-frozen dinner rolls and looked like he’d just trekked across the tundra. “The pipes burst at Beatrix’s,” he sputtered, his teeth chattering. “And the stove died halfway through the turkey.”
I stared at him, my mouth hanging open as I saw two more cars sliding into my driveway. Out piled Julian, Beatrix, and about six others, all looking like defeated soldiers returning from a lost war. They were shivering, clutching lukewarm side dishes in Tupperware, and looking at my house like it was a lighthouse in a storm. Beatrix walked up the porch steps, her face red from the cold and, I suspect, a fair amount of embarrassment.
