But I did not.
I stood, gathered the side plates from the table, and carried them into the kitchen.
Neither of them followed.
I rinsed the dishes under warm water, dried my hands, and hung the towel back neatly on the oven handle.
When I returned, Ashley still had not spoken. Fred looked like he wanted to, but no words came.
The difference this time was not only in what I had said.
It was that I meant it.
For the first time in years, I did not feel guilty.
Not even a little.
I used to love Christmas back when it felt shared.
There had been a time when Ashley would ask if she could bring dessert and actually arrive with a homemade pie. There had been a time when Fred would haul the tree into the living room, pine needles falling across the carpet while he grumbled the whole way, and still he would smile when the lights came on.
After dinner, he would hug me and say, “Smells like Christmas in here, Mom.”
Those holidays were never perfect.
