The oven ran hot. The kids spilled juice. Someone always forgot batteries. The tree lights tangled every year no matter how carefully I packed them away.
But the work felt lighter then because it was shared.
Everyone pitched in. Everyone brought something. Even when the house was loud and the schedule was messy, there was gratitude in it.
Somewhere along the way, that changed.
At first, the shift was small enough that I could pretend not to notice.
One year, Ashley asked if her parents could come for Christmas dinner too.
“Just for a few hours,” she promised.
Of course, I said yes. I thought it would be nice to have everyone together.
The next year, they stayed the whole day.
After that, the whole weekend.
Soon it became the full week leading up to Christmas, and sometimes they stretched their stay close to New Year’s.
Then came Ashley’s brothers. Then their wives. Then cousins. Then friends passing through who had nowhere else to go.
My guest rooms filled first.
Then the living room couches.
Then air mattresses appeared on the den floor.
