My name is Lauren. I’m twenty-eight, and I live alone in a tiny apartment in Chicago, Illinois.
Three weeks ago, I drove four hours back to my parents’ house for what my mom proudly calls our “early Christmas family dinner”—even though it actually happens on Thanksgiving. She said it was more convenient that way. Everyone was off work. Everyone could be together.
I almost turned the car around twice on that drive, but guilt is a powerful fuel. So I showed up with a homemade pumpkin pie and a smile that didn’t reach my eyes.
Dinner was loud and chaotic—football on the TV, everyone talking over everyone else, acting like this was some Hallmark special. Then, when the plates were cleared, my mom stood up and clapped her hands for attention like she was hosting an award show.
She pulled out a bag full of wrapped gifts and started handing them out one by one, going around the table.
My dad got a new golf shirt.
My uncle got his favorite expensive wine.
My sisters got cute personalized things—little bracelets and a spa certificate.
People laughed, said thank you, hugged her.
I waited because, of course, there had to be something for me too.
When the bag was empty and she still hadn’t looked in my direction, I finally asked, as casually as I could:
“Is there one for me?”
She didn’t even hesitate.
“Be grateful you can sit here,” she said, like she was reminding me I should be thankful just to be allowed in the room.
My uncle snorted and added, “Be glad we still remember your name.”
And the whole table exploded in laughter.
My face went hot, but I just nodded.
“Good to know,” I said.
No yelling. No tears. Just that.
I left early, drove back to Chicago in the dark, and decided something was going to change.
Because two weeks later, those same people who laughed at me were at my door, pounding on it and begging me to talk.
And that’s when the real story started.
When I got back to Chicago that night, I dropped my keys on the counter, put the pumpkin pie in the trash, and sat on the kitchen floor staring at my phone.
Part of me wanted to send a long message in the family group chat telling them exactly how they’d humiliated me.
But I knew how that would go.
They would say I was being dramatic.
That it was just a joke.
That I should be grateful they even invited me.
So instead, I texted Mia, my best friend.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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