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.

Extended family. The words stung more than they should have. I swallowed hard, forcing a smile.

“That’s fine. I can come back tomorrow. “Maybe you could point me to my hotel.

“The one you said I didn’t need to book because I could stay in the guest room.”

A flash of something—guilt perhaps—crossed his face. “The guest room isn’t ready. We thought you were coming tomorrow.”

I stood there, suitcase in hand, as the reality of the situation began to sink in.

“So, where am I supposed to stay tonight?”

He had the decency to look uncomfortable. “There’s a Holiday in about 15 minutes from here. “I can call and see if they have a room available.”

Behind him, a small voice called out.

“Daddy, who’s at the door?”

Mark turned, his body language shifting. “Nobody, sweetheart. Go back to grandma and grandpa.”

Nobody.

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