My name is Mackenzie Thompson, and I was 28 when my holiday spirit died on my Aunt Laura’s doorstep, standing there with homemade pie and carefully wrapped gifts. I watched her face harden as she opened the door. The words struck like ice, we don’t want you here. Go ruin someone else’s holiday. Through the doorway, I glimpsed my entire family laughing around the table. I just nodded, turned around, and said, got it. Ten minutes later, my dad burst through that same door, yelling my name.
Growing up in the Thompson family always felt like walking on eggshells, especially after my parents’ divorce five years ago. Dad, David Thompson, was always my rock, hardworking, patient, and genuinely interested in my life.
Mom, Karen, was more distant, caught up in her social circles and appearances. The split wasn’t surprising, but the aftermath was nuclear. My relationship with Aunt Laura, Mom’s younger sister, had always been strained.
Even as a child, I noticed how she’d criticize my choices, from my clothing to my career aspirations. Architecture isn’t practical for someone like you, Mackenzie, she’d say during family dinners. You’ve never been good with details.
Each comment chipped away at my confidence, but Dad would always counter with encouragement when we got home. My siblings reacted differently to our fractured family. Connor, my older brother by two years, became Mom’s right-hand man.
He was always practical, studying business and following the path our mother laid out. Amber, my younger sister, was 16 when the divorce happened and took it hardest. She retreated into her art and music, but somehow ended up in Mom’s orbit, hanging on Aunt Laura’s every word about rebuilding a proper family.
The divorce itself was a battlefield of accusations and assets. Dad, a civil engineer with his own small firm, wanted a clean split and offered generous terms. Mom, however, listened to Aunt Laura, who insisted he must be hiding money.
The proceedings dragged on for nearly a year, with Laura constantly whispering in Mom’s ear, turning what could have been amicable into something ugly. Your father abandoned this family. Became Laura’s constant refrain to my siblings, despite Dad showing up to every school event, every medical appointment, every important moment.
When the dust settled, Connor and Amber chose to live with Mom in the family home, while I, at 23 and finishing my architecture degree, spent weekends with Dad in his new downtown apartment. Those first few years after the divorce created a canyon between us. Holidays became diplomatic negotiations, with Laura often serving as Mom’s spokesperson.
Your mother doesn’t think it’s appropriate for you to bring your father’s new girlfriend to Thanksgiving. She’d call to inform me, though Dad hadn’t dated anyone. Or we’ve already made plans that include Connor’s girlfriend’s family, so there’s really no room at the table this year.
Each exclusion stung, but Dad never spoke ill of them. They’re still processing, he’d say, making us French toast on Christmas mornings when I couldn’t face Laura’s annual Christmas Eve dinner. Family is complicated, Mac.
Just keep showing up when you can. For months ago, I landed my dream job at Evergreen Design, a boutique architectural firm specializing in sustainable urban housing. The hours were long.
The learning curve steep, but I was finally putting my degree to work. My first major project was designing affordable, eco-friendly apartments for downtown revitalization. Dad was ecstatic.
Mom was politely disinterested when I called to share the news. That’s nice, dear. Did you hear Connor’s been promoted to regional manager? We’re all so proud.