No one argued. No one raised their voice. They didn’t need to—the disappointment was obvious.
They stayed briefly, then left. And the house fell into that hollow quiet that comes when people take more than they give.
The following year, I invited them again.
I didn’t explain anything. I didn’t announce a change.
I simply waited.
As Christmas Eve approached, my phone filled with messages.
Running late.
Kids are sick.
Work emergency.
Travel issues.
One even sent an email—formal, distant, titled Christmas Regrets. I never opened it.
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