Christmas has always meant one thing to me: family.
That’s why, for the past four years, my husband Ethan, our seven-year-old daughter Maddie, our five-year-old son Noah, and I had kept the same special tradition. Every Christmas, we escaped to the islands. Just the four of us. No schedules. No drama. Just sun, ocean air, and time to breathe before the chaos of holiday dinners, relatives, and obligations came crashing in.
This year was supposed to be exactly the same.
But it wasn’t.
When we pulled into our driveway after the trip, my heart dropped straight into my stomach.
I froze.
Our house looked like a crime scene.
Egg yolk slid down the walls in thick, sticky trails. Broken shells covered the porch. The front steps were splattered, the windows streaked, and even the holiday wreath I had spent hours making was ruined—yellow, slimy, and reeking.
“What the hell?” Ethan muttered as he stepped out of the car, Noah scrambling out behind him.
“Mom… what happened?” Maddie asked from the backseat, her voice small and confused.
“I… I don’t know, sweetheart,” I said, forcing calm even as my chest tightened.
Noah crouched near the porch, staring at the mess like it was a science experiment.
“Could a bird do this, Dad?” he asked innocently.
I wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or scream.
I kept my voice steady for the kids, but inside, I was boiling.
Who would do this?
We weren’t troublemakers. We were good neighbors—great neighbors. I baked cookies for new families. I helped organize block parties. I checked in on elderly neighbors and never turned down a chance to help.
This wasn’t random.
This was personal.
Then Ethan found the note.
It was shoved under the doorframe, crumpled and damp from egg yolk. He handed it to me carefully, like it might explode.
This is for what you took from me before Christmas.
I stared at the words, my mind racing.
What had I taken?
And who believed I had taken it?
That night, after we finally got the kids to bed, Ethan and I sat down in front of the security monitor. My stomach twisted as the footage played.
A hooded figure crept up our driveway, cartons of eggs tucked under their arm. Every throw was slow and intentional. This wasn’t a prank. This wasn’t kids being stupid.
“This is insane,” Ethan said. “Who even does this anymore? Egging houses is something teens do after drinking too much.”
But I wasn’t listening anymore.
Something about the way the person moved made my blood run cold. The slight tilt of the head. The slump of the shoulders between throws.
“No,” I whispered. “It can’t be.”
But it was.
The person vandalizing our home… was my mother.
The next morning, I left Ethan with the kids and drove straight to my mom’s house. My hands were clenched so tightly around the steering wheel that my knuckles ached.
When she opened the door, she smiled like nothing was wrong.
“Ellie! What a surprise!”
“Why?” I blurted out, skipping every polite word. “Just tell me why.”
Her smile faded instantly.
“Why what? Explain what?” she asked, already knowing.
“Why would you do that to us?” I said, my voice shaking. “Don’t pretend, Mom. I know it was you.”
Her face went pale. She looked away, guilt written all over her.
“Come sit down, El,” she said quietly.
“I don’t want to sit down,” I snapped. “I want to know why you destroyed my house.”
She swallowed hard.
“It was because of your mother-in-law.”
I blinked.
“What does Gloria have to do with this?”
“She called me,” my mother said sharply. “Right before Christmas. She told me you and Ethan took her on your island vacation. She went on and on about how included she felt. How special. How much time she got with the kids.” Her voice cracked. “And me? I was just left here. Alone. In the cold.”
My chest tightened.
“Mom,” I said softly. “That’s not true. We didn’t take Gloria. She wasn’t there. I swear to you.”
Her eyes widened.
“Then… why would she say that?”
“To hurt you,” I said gently. “To make you feel exactly like this. Why would I take her and not my own mother?”
She sank onto the couch, covering her face with her hands.
“I was so angry, Ellie,” she whispered. “I felt invisible. Like I didn’t matter anymore. And I just… snapped.”
Her words hurt because there was truth in them.
Somewhere along the way—between work, kids, schedules, and exhaustion—I had let my mom drift to the edges of our lives. I loved her deeply, but I hadn’t noticed how lonely she had become.
Looking back, the signs were there. Short phone calls. Hesitation in her voice. The way she stopped dropping by with baked treats, like she used to.
“Mom,” I said, sitting beside her. “What you did was wrong. But I’m sorry too. I should’ve noticed. Life got overwhelming, and I didn’t mean to leave you behind.”
She broke down.
“I’ll pay for everything,” she cried. “The cleaning, the repairs—anything.”
“We’ll clean it together,” I said firmly. “But more importantly, we fix us. No more letting other people twist our feelings.”
She nodded, relief washing over her face. When we hugged, it felt like years of distance finally cracked.
That afternoon, she came over with buckets, soap, and rags. We scrubbed walls, windows, the porch—everything. It was messy and smelly, but with every swipe, it felt like old wounds were being washed away too.
By evening, the house felt whole again.
That night, Ethan and I sat with glasses of wine.
“Gloria called my mom,” I told him. “She lied and said she was on vacation with us.”
“You’re kidding,” Ethan said. “Why would she do that?”
“I don’t know,” I sighed. “But you need to deal with her. I need to focus on my mom.”
“I’ll call her,” he said firmly.
While Ethan spoke to his mother, I called mine.
“Come spend New Year’s Eve with us,” I said. “Just us. At home.”
There was a pause.
“You really mean that?” she asked softly.
“I do, Mom.”
On New Year’s Eve, she arrived glowing, carrying dumplings, chocolate cake, and lamingtons for the kids. Maddie and Noah wrapped themselves around her legs, laughing.
At midnight, we raised our glasses.
“Cheers to new beginnings,” my mom said.
A week later, we met Gloria at a café.
“I lied,” she admitted. “I was lonely. I made a terrible mistake.”
“You could’ve spent time together,” I said. “You didn’t have to hurt anyone.”
She nodded, ashamed.
“I’ll fix it.”
And she did.
Slowly, our mothers repaired their relationship. Now they’re mahjong buddies who bake together every weekend.
As for me?
I still love Christmas.
But I can’t stand eggs anymore.