Carol’s house was a Christmas postcard—trees everywhere, garlands swinging, lights glowing just so. She ruled it all, from the dinner plates to the tiniest detail, obsessed with perfection. I’ve been Eric’s wife for three years, and her Christmas is our ritual. This year, I aimed to impress. My girls, Lily and Mia, from my first marriage, cherish Eric’s family, eager to belong. Carol adores Ben, our little one with Eric, showering him with affection, but she sidelines the girls—like gifting Ben a toy while they split a coloring book. I chose reindeer sweaters for the kids, matching her style, hoping she’d see us as part of the picture.
Her photoshoot invite came, and Eric grinned, “Mom’s all about the look.” “We’ll match that,” I vowed, ready to shine. But at her door, I froze—they all wore plaid pajamas, from Carol to the dog, while our sweaters screamed outsider. Carol’s “Oh, no text about pajamas?” was syrupy, her gaze sharp. Lily and Mia looked to me, and I said, “We’re good.” She smirked, “Quite the statement.” Eric whispered, “She’s harmless,” as I stashed our coats. Carol grabbed Ben, gushing about photos, brushing us off. Mia asked, “Are we included?” “Yes,” I assured, but Carol sent me to “fix Ben,” a clear hint to step aside.
Back in the room, I saw Lily and Mia teary on the couch. “Grandma said we don’t fit without pajamas,” Lily choked out. Anger flared. “Carol, really?” I snapped. She played coy, “I forgot to tell you—too bad,” then waved pajamas for Eric and Ben, dressing him like I didn’t exist. Eric intervened, stripping them off. “Why leave them out, Mom?” he demanded. She dodged, “It’s minor,” but he fired back, “You hurt them. That’s major.” The room hushed, her excuse hanging. “We’re done,” he said, taking Ben and us to the door. Carol yelped, “Over this?” “Over respect,” he shot back. At home, he clicked our photo—sweaters, smiles, real. “Love beats outfits,” he wrote online. Carol learned her limit that day.
