For four years, Christmas meant island vibes for me, Ethan, and our kids, Maddie and Noah. It’s our escape, a sunny breather before holiday madness. This year, we came back to a shock—our house slimed with eggs, shells everywhere, my wreath a gooey wreck. Ethan swore, the kids stared, and I boiled inside. We’re the neighbors who bake welcome pies and throw street parties—why us? Then Ethan pulled a note from the door: “This is for what you took from me before Christmas.” My mind raced—what did I take? That night, with the kids in bed, we hit the security tapes. A hooded figure lobbed eggs with intent, and I saw it—their hunch, their sway. My heart thudded. It was my mom.
I sped to her house the next day, barely keeping cool. She grinned at me, but I snapped, “Why?” She stalled, then blamed Gloria, Ethan’s mom. Gloria had called, bragging about joining our trip, crowing about kid time while my mom stewed alone. Except it was fake—Gloria stayed home. My mom, crushed and sidelined, had unleashed her pain on our house. It hit me hard. Gloria had stabbed her, and I’d pushed Mom aside, lost in my whirlwind of kids and work. Her calls had softened, her visits dried up, and I’d let it happen. “You were wrong,” I said, sitting near, “but I get it. I’m sorry I forgot you.” She sobbed, swearing to make it right. We cleaned the egg mess together that day, scrubbing away hurt with every stroke, finding each other again.
Over wine, Ethan and I unraveled it—Gloria’s lie had sparked this. He’d confront her; I called Mom for New Year’s. She swept in with goodies and a dazzling dress, charming the kids. At midnight, we toasted renewal, and I felt us heal. Later, Gloria owned up over coffee—she’d lied, lonely we’d left her out. “Why not call my mom?” I asked. She regretted it, vowing a tea party fix. They patched it up, now baking and playing mahjong together. The egg attack stung, but it rebuilt us stronger—and eggs? I’m done with them.
