My daughter spent Christmas in an empty house after my family said there was “no room” at the table. On Christmas, I was working a double shift in the ER. While I was gone, my parents and sister told my sixteen-year-old daughter there was “no room” for her at the table.
She drove home alone and spent Christmas in a silent, empty house. I didn’t make a scene. I didn’t argue over the phone.
I made one quiet move instead. The next morning, my parents opened their front door, found a letter waiting… and the calls started right away. The digital clock on my dashboard flashed midnight as I pulled into our driveway.
Christmas Eve had officially arrived, though whatever holiday spirit I’d had left somewhere between the third cardiac arrest and the fifth car-crash victim at Oregon Regional. My shoulders ached after a fourteen-hour shift in the trauma unit, my scrubs carrying the invisible weight of other people’s tragedies. I fumbled with my house key, expecting darkness.
Michael was away on business until tomorrow morning, and Maya had texted earlier about heading to my parents’ for their annual Christmas Eve dinner. The thought of my sixteen-year-old daughter spending time with family had been the one bright spot in my exhausting day. When I pushed open the door, soft lamplight spilled across our living room.
My breath caught in my throat. Maya lay curled on the sofa, still wearing her winter coat, her face partially hidden beneath a cascade of dark hair. Her chest rose and fell in the shallow rhythm of troubled sleep.
On the coffee table sat an untouched plate of food and a container of her homemade sugar cookies—the ones she’d spent all yesterday afternoon perfecting for her grandparents. “Maya?” I whispered, kneeling beside her. Her eyelids fluttered open.
For an instant, raw vulnerability flashed across her face before she tried to cover it with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Hey, Mom.” Her voice cracked slightly. “You’re home early.”
“What happened, sweetheart?”
I brushed the hair from her forehead, noticing the crumpled dress beneath her coat—the one she’d spent weeks choosing, the one she’d tried on for me four times, asking if it was nice enough for Grandma’s fancy dinner.
The dress was wrinkled now, its delicate fabric bearing the evidence of hours spent curled in defeat on our sofa. As she sat up, the living room light caught the faint tracks of dried tears on her cheeks. “Nothing happened,” she said with a shrug, reaching for nonchalance and missing by miles.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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