Christmas morning, for the first time in years, I didn’t wake at dawn to baste anything. I stayed in pajamas until eleven, played board games with the kids, drank coffee while it was still hot, and didn’t vacuum a single baseboard. At Lisa’s, the house glowed—twinkle lights, soft music, that warm hum of people enjoying each other. My mom stood in an apron, pulling a pie from the oven, waving me in like I was royalty. “You made it!” “Wouldn’t miss it,” I said, meaning it.
Lisa was a natural—organized without being rigid, generous without martyrdom. The day flowed. People talked to each other instead of hovering around me with questions. I ate while the food was warm. I sat. I watched my kids laugh with their cousins. I was present.Continue reading…
