My Daughter Wrote: “Don’t You Dare Come for Christmas! We Don’t Want to See You!” My Son…
My daughter texted me,
“Don’t come here for Christmas. We need space from your drama.”
My son said nothing.
I stared at my phone, reading those words over and over, certain I must have misunderstood. Then I did something I never thought I’d do. I opened my banking app and canceled every single automatic payment I’d been sending them for years. All of them gone. The next morning, they both stood at my doorstep.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Let me tell you how a good mother became a woman who finally chose herself.
My name is Jennifer Morrison, and for 62 years I believed that being a good mother meant sacrificing everything for your children. For 35 of those years, I lived by that principle like it was gospel truth.
I’m sitting here now in my kitchen in suburban Cleveland. The same kitchen where my husband David and I raised two children. The same kitchen where he collapsed 7 years ago while I was making his favorite pot roast. The same kitchen where I’ve spent countless nights alone wondering where I went wrong.
The December sun sets early here. Through my window, I can see the garden David planted 20 years ago. The roses he loved are dormant now, waiting for spring. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve been dormant, too.
Let me tell you about the text message that changed everything.
It came 3 days ago on a Tuesday evening. I just finished my watercolor class at the community center, something I’d recently started to fill the empty hours. My phone buzzed as I was cleaning my brushes. It was from Sarah, my 34year-old daughter.
“Mom, we need to talk about Christmas. Kyle and I have been discussing it, and we’ve decided we need family time this year. Just us and the kids. You’re always so needy and demanding, calling all the time, making everything about you. We need space. Don’t call. Don’t text. Just leave us alone for the holidays.”
I sat down hard on my kitchen chair. The phone nearly slipped from my grip.
Needy. Demanding.
I had called her twice that week. Once to ask if Olivia needed anything for her dance recital. Once to see if they’d received the check I’d sent for their mortgage payment. That’s what she called needy.
I waited for Ethan, my 31-year-old son, to call or text. To say something in the family group chat where he’d surely seen Sarah’s message.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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