A week before Christmas, I was making coffee when I heard Amanda, my daughter, talking on the phone in the living room. Her voice was casual, almost cheerful, as if she were planning a vacation.
I quietly moved closer and heard her say, “Just leave all eight grandkids with her. She doesn’t have anything else to do anyway. We’re going to the hotel and have a peaceful time.”
I froze, mug in hand, struggling to process her words. I had heard things like this before, but never so cold, so direct.
She kept talking, even laughing. “Martin already booked the hotel. Robert and Lucy are going too. Mom has experience—she can handle them. She already bought the gifts and dinner. We just show up on the 25th, eat, open presents, and that’s it. Perfect.”
That word echoed in my mind—perfect for them, not for me. I set the mug down quietly, my hands shaking with a rage I hadn’t realized I was holding.