The text landed like a blade, carving straight through the softest part of me before I could even brace. Six words, no cushioning, no context: No room for you this Christmas. I stared until the letters smeared into a Rorschach of every year I’d swallowed my hurt to keep the peace, every time my presence was framed as an inconvenience they generously endured. I thought of Maya’s stocking in the hall closet, still smelling faintly of cinnamon, and of the way my mother’s voice had brightened when she’d said “maybe next year” so many times it became a script. This time, there would be no next year. I closed the email, opened a new tab, and bought us a cabin, four first-class tickets, and a different kind of Chri… Continues…
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