I’d dreamed of a fairy-tale Christmas, and this one was huge—my first with my fiancé Liam’s family. I was thrilled to join them, blind to the storm coming. Liam’s folks were a quirky bunch, always giggling over stuff I didn’t get, but I brushed it off. We clicked last spring over coffee—him doodling on cups, me sipping lattes quietly. His chaos balanced my calm, and seven months ago, he proposed with a ring in a fortune cookie, pure Liam silliness.
I cried yes, over the moon, not guessing I’d soon crash. Before Christmas, I picked out perfect gifts—a chic scarf for his mom Paula, a cool watch for his dad, a gaming console for his brother Stephan, and a leather jacket for Liam. My family loves big, thoughtful gifts; last year, Mom’s photo albums and Sarah’s jewelry melted us all. “They’ll adore these,” I told Sarah, showing the scarf. “You’re spoiling them!” she laughed.
Christmas Eve, I drove to their picture-perfect Victorian house, snow glowing outside. I was pumped, but their welcome was icy—Paula’s smile didn’t reach her eyes, Stephan ignored me, and his dad barely nodded. Liam tried to cheer, but it flopped. Next day, Paula corrected my every kitchen move, their game jokes flew past me—“Mom and the dishwasher turkey!”—and I sat lost. Movies were a blur with their odd drinking game.
“You’ll learn,” Liam said, but I doubted it. Gift time came, and eighteen packages had my name. I tore into one—coal. Then another—coal again. All eighteen, coal, as they laughed hysterically. “Newbie hazing!” Paula crowed. I ran off, hurt, and Liam just said, “It’s our way—funny, right?” Funny? I told them this wasn’t right and walked out. Later, Liam called—their power died, Christmas wrecked. “Karma,” I shot back. He yelled, but I dumped him, done with their mean streak. I donated the gift money to a shelter, feeling lighter than ever—no more coal, just clarity.
