My Daughter Wrote: “Don’t You Dare Come To Us For Christmas! We Don’t Want To See You!’ My Son…

There was always something. Student loans, rent increases, his car payment. Beyond the monthly payments, there were the extras. Birthday gifts that cost hundreds, Christmas presents that maxed out my credit card, emergency loans that were never repaid. When Jessica’s washing machine broke, I bought them a new one.

When Brian’s laptop died, I replaced it within days. I told myself this was what mothers did. This was love. But lately, something had shifted. The phone calls became shorter, more transactional. Hi, Mom. Just checking if you sent this month’s payment yet. Mom, I need an extra 500 by Friday. The I love you started feeling like afterthoughts.

obligations tacked on to requests for money. Thanksgiving had been strange. Jessica had barely spoken to me, too busy on her phone. Brian had arrived late and left early, claiming he had plans with friends. Neither of them asked how I was doing, whether I was lonely in that big house by myself, whether my arthritis was bothering me again. I pushed down the hurt.

They were busy. They had their own lives. This was normal, wasn’t it? Then December arrived and with it the first real wound. I had mentioned casually that I’d love to spend Christmas with them this year. Maybe I could come to Jessica’s house, help with the cooking, watch the kids open presents, or they could all come to me.

I’d prepare Tom’s famous prime rib, set up the guest rooms. Jessica’s response came via text message, not even a phone call. I stared at my phone screen, reading the words over and over, certain I must have misunderstood. Don’t you dare come here for Christmas. We don’t want to see you. My hands trembled. I read it again and again. The message continued. We need family time.

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