part 6
The next morning, Christmas Day dawned crisp and bright.
Wren woke up at six-thirty, bursting into my bedroom with the unstoppable energy only an eight-year-old on Christmas morning can possess. We spent hours opening the presents under our small, perfectly imperfect tree—books, art supplies, a new winter coat, and a giant Lego set that we spent three hours building on the living room rug while drinking hot cocoa with extra marshmallows.
Around noon, my phone buzzed on the coffee table.
I glanced at it. The screen lit up with an incoming call from an unrecognized local number.
I let it ring out to voicemail.
A minute later, it buzzed again. Then a text message popped up.
Maren, please pick up. It’s your mother.
I set the phone face down and went back to helping Wren sort her red and green Lego bricks.
Ten minutes later, the phone rang again. This time it was my father. Then Talia. Then Beckett.
By two o'clock in the afternoon, my phone had received twenty-two missed calls and fourteen frantic text messages from every single member of my family.
I finally picked it up, curiosity winning out over my desire for absolute peace. I tapped on my mother’s latest text message.
Maren, we checked the bank portal this morning! The foreclosure notice is gone! The account says PAID IN FULL! Did you... did you actually pay it? Even after everything? Please call us. We are so, so sorry. We didn't mean what we said yesterday. It was just the stress of the holidays talking. Please come back over for Christmas dinner leftovers. We want to see our granddaughter.
I stared at the screen, a dry, humorless smile touching the corners of my lips.
"The stress of the holidays talking." That was always their favorite excuse. Abuse disguised as holiday stress. Cruelty disguised as a slip of the tongue.
I didn't call them back. Instead, I opened my banking app, screenshotted the transaction receipt, and sent it directly in a text message reply to my mother, along with one final sentence.
The house is safe. You will never lose your roof. But I am still never coming back. Merry Christmas.
Before she could reply, I blocked her number.
Then I blocked Talia’s number.
May you like
Then Beckett’s, and my father’s, and every extended family member who had ever enabled their toxic dynamic.
I dropped the phone back onto the coffee table, letting the screen go dark for good.
