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.

That’s what I was to my own son. Nobody. I took a step back.

Dignity the only thing keeping me upright. “Don’t bother with the hotel. I’ll figure it out.”

“Mom,” he started, but I cut him off.

“Merry Christmas, Mark. “Give the children my love.”

I turned and walked away, my suitcase feeling heavier with each step. I didn’t look back, even when I heard the door close behind me.

I made it to the end of the block before the tears came, hot and furious against my cold cheeks. It was there, sitting on a bench at a bus stop, that I decided I wouldn’t go to a hotel. I would come back tomorrow as planned.

Perhaps there had been a genuine misunderstanding. Perhaps tomorrow would be different. It wasn’t.

When I returned the next day at precisely 2:45 p.m., dressed in my new emerald dress with arms full of gifts, Mark opened the door and uttered those unforgivable words. “Sorry, I think you’re at the wrong house.”

For a moment, I thought he was joking. Some cruel prank that would end with laughter and apologies.

But his eyes were cold. Unfamiliar. Behind him, I could see a Christmas tree surrounded by presents, a table set for dinner, and the back of Elaine’s head as she arranged something on the sideboard.

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