My name is Suzanne Donahghue. I’m 32 years old. And until last Christmas, I still believed there were lines my parents would never cross. I was wrong.
Christmas Eve at my parents’ house always looked perfect from the outside. Warm lights glowing through the windows, cars packed into the driveway, music spilling out so loudly you could hear it before you even reached the door. It looked like love lived there. Inside, it felt like a performance. My older sister Lauren’s kids were already on the floor when we walked in, half-buried in wrapping paper, boxes everywhere, bright screens already glowing, laughter exploding from every corner of the room. Then the screaming started because my brother-in-law walked in from the garage carrying a crate. Inside it was a tiny golden puppy wrapped with a ridiculous red bow. People actually gasped. Phones flew up. Someone yelled, “No way.” Like we were filming a commercial. My mother clapped her hands together. My father laughed loud and proud, soaking it all in.
I stood near the door holding my daughter Savannah. She’s four, still at that age where she believes Christmas magic doesn’t run out. She was clutching a drawing she’d been working on for days. Stick figures in bright colors, little hearts floating above everyone’s heads, a Christmas tree in the middle with the words Happy Together scribbled across the top. She slipped out of my arms and ran straight to my father.
“Grandpa,” she said, holding it up like it was the most important thing in the world. He glanced at it for maybe two seconds. “M, thanks,” he muttered. Then he folded it once carelessly and set it on the counter before walking away to refill his drink. That was it. No smile, no comment, no acknowledgment that a four-year-old had just given him something she was genuinely proud of. My mother smiled, that tight, rehearsed smile she uses when she wants everything to look normal.
Savannah stood there for a moment, confused. Then the music pulled her attention away, and she drifted toward her cousins, watching them rip open box after box. I told myself not to overthink it. Maybe her presents were in another room. Maybe they were saving them for later. I leaned down and whispered that Santa sometimes saves surprises for the end. She nodded, trusting me without question.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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