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.

He never did. After a week of silence, I called again. This time, it went to voicemail.

I left a message, my voice carefully steady. “Mark, it’s mom. I was just wondering if you’d had a chance to talk to Elaine about Christmas.

“I found a reasonable hotel nearby. “Call me back when you can.”

Three days later, I received a text. Christmas is fine.

Dinner at 3. No hotel needed. You can have the guest room.

I was elated. I booked my flight immediately. Spent hours selecting gifts for the children.

And even splurged on a new dress, emerald green with a modest neckline that complimented my silver hair. I wanted to look nice for the family photos. The flight to Boston on Christmas Eve was turbulent, but my spirits were high.

I took a taxi from the airport to the address Mark had provided, a beautiful colonial in an upscale suburb. The neighborhood was picture perfect with snowdusted lawns and twinkling lights adorning the houses. I couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride.

My son had done well for himself. I arrived just after 2:00 in the afternoon, pulling my suitcase behind me as I navigated the freshly shoveled walkway. I could see movement behind the frosted glass of the front door.

My heart quickened as I rang the bell, smoothing down my coat with nervous hands. The door swung open, and there stood Mark, his expression flickering from surprise to something I couldn’t quite name. He was taller than I remembered, his dark hair now peppered with gray at the temples.

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