“Cancel Christmas? Sit alone while my daughters judge me?”
“Maybe respect Mom’s memory? Remember 30 years of marriage?
The woman who spent last Christmas in the hospital still trying to make it special for everyone?”
“I’m still your father,” he said sharply. “And Amanda is coming to Christmas dinner. That’s final.”
“Fine.” I hung up and immediately called my sisters.
“He’s lost his mind,” Katie declared during our emergency video chat. “Completely lost it.”
Sarah looked like she might cry. “What do we do?”
I had an idea forming.
A terrible, perfect idea. Christmas Eve arrived cold and snowy. I spent the morning in Mom’s kitchen making her stuffing recipe.
Every few minutes I caught myself turning to ask her a question, the grief hitting fresh each time I remembered she wasn’t there. Katie arrived early to help, bringing Mom’s special tablecloth, the one with tiny embroidered holly leaves that Mom would spend hours ironing each year. “I couldn’t sleep,” Katie admitted as we set the table.
“Kept thinking about Mom, how she’d make us polish the silver until it sparkled.”
“Remember how she’d position everything just right?” Sarah added, arriving with pies. “The centerpiece had to be exactly in the middle.”
“And the photos,” I smiled sadly. “So many photos before anyone could eat.”
“Dad would complain his food was getting cold,” Katie laughed, then stopped abruptly.
“God, I miss her.”
The doorbell rang at exactly six. Dad rushed to answer it, checking his reflection in the hall mirror first. “Everyone,” his voice boomed with pride, “this is Amanda.”
I was stunned.
She couldn’t have been older than 25. Long blonde hair, expensive boots, perfect makeup. She looked like she could have been our younger sister.
My father looked like he’d won the lottery. “This is your new MOM!” He announced, his arm around her waist. “I hope you all got her something nice for Christmas!”
Katie dropped her wine glass.
The red spread across Mom’s white tablecloth like a wound, the holly leaves disappearing under the stain. Dinner was excruciating. Amanda kept trying to make a conversation, her voice high and nervous.
“This stuffing is amazing,” she said. “Family recipe?”
“My mother’s recipe,” I replied, emphasizing each word. “She made it every Christmas for 30 years.
This was her favorite holiday.”
“Oh.” Amanda pushed food around her plate. “I’m so sorry about your loss. George told me—”
“George?” I cut her off with a wicked grin.
“You mean Dad?”
Dad cleared his throat. “Lily!”
“No, I want to know… when exactly did he tell you about Mom? Before or after he asked you out?”
“Lily, stop,” Dad whispered.
“Did he tell you she spent three years fighting cancer? That she was still having chemo this time last year?” I couldn’t stop. “That she made him promise to keep our family together?”
“That’s enough!” Dad’s voice thundered across the table.
Amanda looked close to tears. “I should probably—”
“No, stay,” Dad insisted. “Family gets uncomfortable sometimes.
That’s normal.”
“Family?” I laughed bitterly. “She’s practically my age, Dad. This isn’t family.
It’s creepy.”
“Present time!” Dad announced after dinner, desperate to change the mood. He’d always played Santa, but watching him do it now felt wrong. I watched Amanda open gifts — a scarf from Katie, a gift card from Sarah.
Then she reached for my carefully wrapped box. “Oh, it’s beautiful,” she gasped, lifting out the antique jewelry box. Mom’s favorite, the one she’d kept her wedding ring in.
“Thank you, Lily. This is so thoughtful.”
“Open it,” I said softly. “There’s something special inside.”
The room fell silent as she lifted the lid.
Inside lay a photograph of Mom in her garden last summer, surrounded by her roses and all three of us girls beside her. Her last good day before the hospital. Her smile was still bright and full of life, even though we knew what was coming.
Beneath it lay my note: “You are not my mother. No one will ever replace her. Remember that.”
Amanda’s hands started shaking.
“I… I need to go.”
“Honey, wait—” Dad reached for her, but she was already running, leaving her coat and muffler behind as she fled into the snowy night. Dad came back inside alone, snow melting on his shoulders, his face ashen. “What did you do?” he demanded.
“I gave her a reality check,” I stood my ground. “Did you really think you could replace Mom with someone my age and we’d just accept it?”
“You had no right,” he growled. “You’re not letting me live my life!”
“Live your life?
Mom’s been dead for four weeks! Her side of the bed isn’t even cold!” I was shouting now, years of watching Mom suffer, weeks of watching Dad move on, all pouring out at once. “Did you even love her?”
“How dare you?” His voice broke.
“I loved your mother for 30 years. I watched her fight. I watched her die.
But she’s gone, Lily. She’s gone, and I’m still here. What am I supposed to do?”
“Not this,” I whispered, tears finally falling.
“Anything but this.”
Katie and Sarah stood frozen, Christmas tree lights casting shadows on their tears. Outside, the snow continued to fall, covering Amanda’s footprints as she’d run away from our family’s broken pieces. My dad blamed me for not letting him move on, but I think his actions were deeply disrespectful to my late mother.
I firmly believe I did the right thing by defending her memory and making it unequivocally clear to Amanda that she could never fill my mother’s shoes. Do you have any opinions on this? Source: amomama
