I was untangling Christmas lights with my 8-year-old twin daughters, Emma and Grace, when my phone buzzed. The text from Dad made my blood run cold: We’re canceling your kids Christmas gifts, budget issues. I stared at the screen in complete disbelief. Sarah looked up from hanging ornaments, asking what was wrong, while the girls bounced around excitedly, chattering about Grandpa and Grandma’s promised Christmas visit.
My mind raced back to Dad’s recent promotion to regional sales director, that shiny new BMW sitting in their driveway just last month. None of this made any sense whatsoever. Then my phone lit up again with a group family photo from my brother Derek showing his kids, Tyler and Madison, unwrapping early Christmas presents.
Twenty minutes later, I was driving through the familiar suburban streets toward my parents’ house, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles had turned white. The December air was crisp and Christmas decorations twinkled from every house I passed, but all I could think about was that devastating text message and those photos of Derek’s kids with their expensive new toys.
I pulled into the circular driveway and immediately spotted Derek’s silver Toyota Camry parked next to Dad’s BMW. Through the large bay window, I could see warm light spilling out and the silhouettes of people moving around inside. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what was about to be a very uncomfortable conversation.
The front door opened before I could even knock. Mom appeared looking flustered, her silver hair slightly disheveled from what must have been a busy afternoon of cooking and entertaining. “Oh, Corey, honey,” she said, her voice carrying that nervous edge I remembered from my childhood whenever she was trying to smooth over a family conflict. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight.”
“We need to talk, Mom,” I said, stepping into the foyer where the scent of roasted turkey and cinnamon filled the air, “about Dad’s text.” Her face immediately fell, and she glanced nervously toward the living room, where I could hear the sounds of children laughing and video games beeping.
“Your father is just trying to be practical about the holidays this year,” she began, but I was already walking past her.
In the living room, I found Derek sprawled on the leather sectional couch, a bottle of expensive craft beer in his hand, watching Tyler and Madison play with what looked like brand new gaming equipment. The coffee table was littered with empty takeout containers from Morton Steakhouse, and I could see the remnants of what must have been a $100 dinner for the family.
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