To each, I gave noncommittal responses.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“My schedule’s packed.”
Little seeds of doubt.
Meanwhile, Liam and I finalized travel. Early Christmas Eve flight. Everything set.
I wrapped the gifts I’d already bought for them and arranged courier delivery Christmas morning. Despite everything, I couldn’t leave the kids without presents.
But I could leave the adults without my obedience.
Christmas Eve dawned clear, cold sunlight glinting off frost-covered lawns as our car headed toward the airport.
Liam thumbed through resort info beside me.
“Second thoughts?” he asked.
“Not about going,” I said. “Just… wondering how they’ll react when they realize I’m not coming.”
At the airport, we checked bags, breezed through security, and ended up with time to spare.
In a tinsel-decorated café, I finally powered on my phone.
Notifications flooded in like a dam breaking.
Six missed calls from Mom.
Four from Eleanor.
Three texts from Daniel asking for batteries.
Voicemails stacked.
The most recent text from Mom was the one that made my stomach drop.
Clara, where are you? We’re waiting to start Christmas Eve breakfast. The children are asking for your cinnamon rolls.
The cinnamon rolls I never agreed to make.
The breakfast I never agreed to attend.
Expectations piled on assumptions piled on years of compliance.
They still didn’t know.
Liam raised his eyebrows when I showed him the screen.
“When are you going to tell them?” he asked.
“Now,” I said, my finger hovering.
But I decided: not everything.
Just enough to disrupt the babysitter plan.
I sent one message.
Will not be available for childcare during Christmas dinner tomorrow. Enjoy your adult-only meal. Love, Clara.
Deliberately vague.
Seconds later, my phone rang.
Mom.
I let it go to voicemail twice.
Then I answered.
“Clara Elizabeth,” she snapped, using my middle name like a weapon. “Where are you?”
“Good morning, Mom,” I said calmly, watching our flight begin boarding.
“Don’t good morning me. The children are waiting for breakfast, and we need to finalize tonight’s schedule. Why aren’t you here?”
“I’m not coming,” I said. “Not today. Not tomorrow.”
Silence.
Then: “What do you mean not coming? Of course you’re coming. It’s Christmas.”
“I overheard your conversation last week,” I said, voice steady. “The one where you, Eleanor, and Daniel decided I’d watch all five kids during your adult-only dinner. The one where you laughed about me being single and having nothing better to do.”
Her tone shifted immediately to placation. “Oh, Clara, you misunderstood. We were just figuring out logistics. Of course we want you at the adult dinner too.”
“I’m being oversensitive?” I asked.
The boarding announcement called our row.
“I’m at the airport, Mom. Our flight leaves in thirty minutes.”
“Airport?” Her voice rose. “What flight? Where are you going?”
“On vacation with Liam,” I said. “The photographer you assumed I wasn’t seeing anymore.”
“Clara, you cannot be serious. What about dinner tomorrow? The traditions? The kids’ presents? The—everything you always handle?”
“That’s the thing,” I said quietly. “They became my responsibility without anyone asking if I wanted that role. This year, I’m choosing something different.”
Her voice went sharp with panic.
“But what about dinner? I haven’t prepared anything. I thought you were handling everything like always.”
“The catering will be delivered at four tomorrow,” I said. “Everything is paid for. Adult dinner for five. Kids’ meals clearly labeled. All you have to do is heat and serve.”
“Catering,” she repeated like it was betrayal. “But that’s not the same as home-cooked. The children will be disappointed.”
“The children will be fine with chicken tenders and Christmas cookies,” I said. “And you adults will enjoy your beef Wellington and wine pairings without worrying about childcare.”
After all, that was the plan.
Just without me.
“We’re boarding,” Liam whispered.
I grabbed my carry-on.
“I have to go,” I said.
“Clara, wait,” Mom pleaded. “You can’t just leave. What are we supposed to do without you?”
The question hung heavy.
Because she meant it.
What were they supposed to do without me?
I gave her the only answer that mattered.
“Figure it out,” I said gently. “Hopefully, you’ll manage.”
Then I added, “The binder is on the counter. Presents are wrapped in the guest room closet. Instructions are there.”
“But it won’t be the same,” she whispered.
“No,” I agreed. “It won’t.”
“Merry Christmas, Mom,” I said. “Enjoy the adult dinner you planned.”
Then I ended the call and switched my phone to airplane mode.
As Liam and I found our seats, I felt a swirl of guilt and anxiety—but underneath it, something I hadn’t felt in years at Christmas:
Liberation.
The plane took off through clouds into clear blue sky.
Liam squeezed my hand.
“You okay?”
I turned to him and smiled—real.
“I am now,” I said. “Merry Christmas to us.”
Christmas morning broke with golden sunshine in our oceanfront suite.
Palm trees swayed. Waves rolled in steady, indifferent rhythm. I stepped onto the balcony with coffee, watching swimmers in the distance, and the contrast hit me so hard I almost laughed.
No snow.
No frantic kitchen.
No kids’ meltdowns.
No binder clutched to my chest like a shield.
Liam wrapped his arms around my waist.
“Any regrets?” he asked.
“Surprisingly,” I said, “no.”
I missed the good parts—the kids’ excitement, the moment a gift lands perfectly.
But I didn’t miss the exhaustion of making everyone else’s joy my job.
We exchanged small gifts. Ate a luxurious room service breakfast. Walked the shore collecting shells like we were kids.
At noon, by the pool with fruity drinks, I checked my phone for the first time.
Twenty-seven missed calls.
Forty-two texts.
Thirteen voicemails.
My family had not taken my absence quietly.
I scrolled through them in order, watching the emotional arc unfold like a play.
Mom’s early messages swung between guilt and anger.
The children are disappointed.
I can’t believe you would abandon us.
Eleanor’s texts were predictably self-centered.
How am I supposed to manage the twins without your help?
Daniel’s messages surprised me.
We really messed up, didn’t we?
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