The first time my mother told me I’d be “hosting” twenty-five people for Christmas, I still had my coat on and my work badge hanging around my neck. Snowmelt dripped from my boots onto the tile as I stood in the doorway of the kitchen, breathing in the smell of canned soup and lemon cleaner. My mother, Elaine, was leaning against the counter with her arms folded, a glass of red wine balanced delicately in her hand like it was part of her body.
The TV in the family room hummed with some home renovation show, and my father sat in his usual chair, half-hidden behind the local newspaper. Chloe, my younger sister, scrolled on her phone at the kitchen island, a bowl of grapes in front of her like a prop. “You’re late,” my mother commented, like I’d kept the whole house waiting.
“Traffic?” She didn’t really care. “Busy shift,” I said, shrugging out of my coat. I worked in project management for a healthcare company in a suburb outside Atlanta, juggling deadlines and grown adults who forgot how calendars worked.
I was tired in the way that sinks into your bones, not in your muscles. My mother took a deliberate sip of wine and gave me the smile she saved for announcements. “Well, you’ll need to get some rest before the holidays.
Your sister’s friends will be here for Christmas—only about twenty-five people.” Her eyes flicked over me, from my messy bun to my sensible shoes. “You know what to do.”
She said it like she was reminding me to pick up paper towels. Like this was already decided, already done, already my responsibility.
I stared at her. “Twenty-five people?”
She waved her hand like it was nothing. “Maybe twenty-seven.
You know how it is. Chloe’s friends, their boyfriends, maybe a couple of coworkers. Young professionals.
They expect a nice spread. Your sister told me you could handle it.”
Chloe didn’t look up from her phone. “You’re the one who actually knows how to cook, Lena,” she said, as if it were a compliment.
“I’d just burn everything.”
My father turned a page of the newspaper but didn’t say a word. He rarely did when my mother made decisions like this. In our house, silence didn’t mean agreement, but it never meant protest either.
It was the wallpaper we all lived with. “How long have you known about this?” I asked, my voice too calm for the way my heart kicked in my chest. My mother shrugged, twisting the stem of her wineglass between two fingers.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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