Showed Up On Christmas, But My Son Said, “Sorry, I Think You’re At The Wrong House.” Stunned, I Left. Minutes Later, He Called: “Relax, Mom. We Just Want Some Peace.” I Said, “I Understand.” But He Forgot To Hang Up: “She Thinks That Help She Sends Every Month Means She Gets A Say.” I Paused The Monthly Help.

I was going to spend Christmas with my grandchildren. Mark and Elaine had two beautiful children, Emma, six, and Noah, four, whom I’d only seen a handful of times. Sophie was expecting her first child in March.

I wanted to be part of their lives, not just a signature on a card or a voice on the phone. I called Mark in early December, my heart racing as I rehearsed what to say. “Mom,” he answered, sounding distracted.

I could hear the den of his office in the background. “Hi, sweetheart. I won’t keep you.

I just wanted to know if I could come for Christmas this year. “I’d love to see the kids open their presents.”
There was a pause, followed by the sound of a door closing. When he spoke again, his voice was lower.

“Christmas… I don’t know, Mom. Elaine’s parents are coming and we don’t have a lot of space.”

“I could stay at a hotel,” I offered quickly. “I wouldn’t be in the way.”

Another pause.

“Let me talk to Elaine and get back to you.”

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