Christmas is our time to run away. Ethan, me, and our kids—Maddie, seven, and Noah, five—swap snow for sand on an island trip every year. It’s our reset before the holiday chaos hits. This time, though, we rolled up to a nightmare—our house dripping with eggs, the porch a shell graveyard, my wreath ruined. “What’s this?” Ethan grumbled, while the kids gaped. I was furious. We’re good people—baking for neighbors, hosting barbecues—why us? Then Ethan found a note under the door: “This is for what you took from me before Christmas.” It rattled me. Took what? From who? That night, with the kids asleep, we checked the cameras. A hooded figure hurled eggs with purpose, and I caught it—their slouch, their tilt. My stomach dropped. It was my mom.
I drove to her place the next morning, fists clenched. She smiled like nothing was wrong, but I demanded, “Why?” She fumbled, then spilled it—Ethan’s mom, Gloria, had called her, boasting about tagging along on our trip, flaunting her time with the kids while my mom sat home alone. But Gloria hadn’t come—it was a cruel fib. My mom, feeling erased, lost it and attacked our house. I couldn’t believe it. Gloria had played her, and I’d let my mom slip away, too busy with life to notice her fading from it. Her voice had dimmed on calls, her drop-ins stopped, and I’d ignored it. “You messed up,” I said, “but I see why. I’m sorry I left you out.” Tears fell as she vowed to fix it. We scrubbed the egg mess together that day, each swipe pulling us closer, mending what I’d let break.
That night, Ethan and I talked over wine. Gloria’s lie had lit the fuse, and he promised to handle her. I called Mom, inviting her for New Year’s. She arrived with treats and a glittery dress, lighting up the kids’ faces. We cheered to new chapters at midnight, and I felt us knit back together. A week later, Gloria confessed at a coffee shop—she’d lied, lonely and hurt we hadn’t asked her along. “Why not reach out to my mom?” I said. She just sighed, promising to mend it with a tea party. They did, and now they’re buddies, baking and gaming weekly. The egg chaos hurt, but it glued us tighter—and I can’t stand eggs anymore.
