Despite everything, I kept trying. Every few weeks, I’d invite Mom for coffee. I sent Amber tickets to exhibitions I thought she’d enjoy.
I even reached out to Aunt Laura when I heard she’d been promoted at the bank where she’d worked for 20 years. Most overtures were met with brief acknowledgments or rain checks that never materialized. So when Mom called in early December with a hesitant invitation to Christmas dinner at Laura’s house, I was shocked.
We think it’s time to put the past behind us, Mom said, her voice unusually soft. Laura’s making her famous prime rib. Everyone will be there.
Everyone, I asked, hopeful yet suspicious. Well, not your father, obviously, she replied, edge returning to her tone. But Connor’s bringing Stephanie.
And Amber’s excited to show you her college application portfolio. I spent days considering the invitation, weighing hope against history. For this special occasion, I decided to create personally meaningful gifts for each family member.
For Mom, I framed a restored photo of her and Grandma from the 1980s that I’d found in Dad’s old albums. For Connor, I found vintage blueprints of the first skyscraper built in our city. He’d been fascinated by it as a kid before business became his focus.
For Amber, I compiled a portfolio of my own college work with notes about professors who’d been particularly helpful and spaces on campus where she could find peace to create art. Even for Aunt Laura, I’d chosen something thoughtful, a custom engraved silver pen for her desk, acknowledging her recent promotion. The engraving read, To New Beginnings, M. It was expensive and elegant, just like everything Laura admired.
You’re setting yourself up, Dad warned when I told him about the invitation. Karen and Laura have a pattern. People can change, I insisted, wrapping Connor’s blueprint in silver paper.
It’s been five years, Dad. Maybe they’re ready to move forward. He squeezed my shoulder.
I hope you’re right, kiddo. But if things go sideways, you call me. Promise? Christmas or not, I’ll be there.
I promised, never imagining I’d need to take him up on it. The weeks before Christmas were a whirlwind at Evergreen Design. Our team was racing to finalize the downtown housing proposal before the holiday break, which meant 14-hour days hunched over drafting tables and 3D models.
My small apartment, a converted loft in an old textile factory, became little more than a place to shower and occasionally sleep. You look like you’ve been hit by a festive freight train. My best friend Jenna observed over our rare lunch break.
We’d been friends since freshman orientation, when we both showed up wearing the exact same obscure band t-shirt. She was now killing it as a graphic designer and remained my most honest critic. Deadlines plus family reunions equals zombie McKenzie, I admitted, downing my third coffee.
But the project’s looking good. Stanton even said my sustainability solutions were elegant. High praise from the robot, Jenna said, referring to our notoriously stoic boss.
But seriously, are you sure about this whole Christmas with the villains thing? I picked at my salad. They’re not villains. They’re family.
Family who’ve spent years making you feel like crap, she countered. Last Christmas, Laura told you they were full up when you called about dinner. Maybe they’ve realized life’s too short, I said.
Mom sounded different on the phone. And I really want to see Amber before she heads to college. Jenna’s skepticism was mirrored by my coworker Kyle, who’d become a friend after we bonded over late night pizza and design challenges.
Unlike Jenna, who knew all the ugly history, Kyle offered a fresher perspective. Family’s complicated, he said, as we calibrated the 3D printer for a model. My parents didn’t speak for three years after my sister’s wedding disaster.
Now they’re vacation buddies. See? People change, I told Jenna over text, including Kyle’s anecdote as evidence. People can change, she conceded.
Leopards in their spots, though. My recent dating disaster with Jason hadn’t helped my overall stress levels. After three promising months, he ghosted me.
Only to resurface with a textbook, it’s not you, it’s me speech. The timing couldn’t have been worse, coming just as the holiday loneliness was setting in. Dad had invited me to join him at his colleague Frank’s annual Christmas gathering, but I declined once Mom’s invitation came through.
You’re sure about this? Dad asked during our weekly dinner at his place. He was making his legendary lasagna, the apartment filled with garlic and oregano. I can still call Frank.
His parties are legendary, last year. His son brought his entire rugby team. I’m sure, I said, setting the table with the mismatched dishes he’d accumulated since the divorce.
I need to try, Dad. For me, not just for them. He nodded, sliding the bubbling lasagna from the oven.
I get it. Just remember what we talked about. Call if it goes sideways, I recited.
I will, but it won’t. I have a good feeling. The day before Christmas, I baked Grandma Thompson’s famous bourbon pecan pie, the recipe Dad had taught me during our first post-divorce Christmas.
It was a family tradition from his side. One that had disappeared from Laura’s Christmas spread after the split. The rich, sweet scent filled my apartment as I carefully packaged gifts and wrote heartfelt cards for each family member.
I tried on four different outfits before settling on a forest green sweater dress with gold accessories, festive but not trying too hard. I wanted to look successful and put together without seeming like I was showing off. The final touch was Grandma Thompson’s delicate gold necklace, a graduation gift from Dad that I rarely wore for fear of losing it.