I left my house like a woman escaping a slow-burning fire she’d been told was “just a little smoke,” nothing to worry about. In Paula’s car, the city thinned into open road, then into the fragile pastel of the coastline. My phone buzzed nonstop: Amanda’s fury, Robert’s clipped accusations, group messages about “ruined traditions” and “Mom’s meltdown.” I let them pile up, face down on the passenger seat. On Christmas Eve, the only thing simmering was a pot of tomato sauce in Paula’s tiny kitchen, the sea breathing in and out beyond the balcony. Their texts shifted from outrage to guilt: “The kids are devastated,” “We spent so much money,” “You’re supposed to be the glue.” Each wave that hit the rocks below seemed to scrub their words lighter, until they were nothing but distant noise. Wrapped in a borrowed cardigan, I fell asleep to the sound of the tide, no alarms, no lists, no mental inventory of everyone else’s needs—only the fragile, unfamiliar space of my ow… Continues…