That was how my son described his own mother.
I looked at him.
“Daniel, it’s me.”
His expression remained cold.
“Please leave, Mom. Don’t make this embarrassing.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
I had raised this man.
I had supported him through difficult years.
I had helped him financially long after he became an adult.
And now he was treating me like an unwanted stranger.
I looked past his shoulder one last time.
The dining table was beautifully arranged.
Candles flickered beside the plates.
Wrapped presents were stacked beneath the Christmas tree.
Claire’s parents sat comfortably near the fireplace.
My grandchildren wore matching Christmas pajamas.
There was a place for everyone.
Except me.
Then Daniel closed the door.
I stood on the porch for almost a minute.
The turkey dish felt heavier in my arms.
Snow continued falling around me.
I wanted to cry.
But I couldn’t.
I carefully walked down the icy steps, returned to my car, and drove home.
When I arrived, I placed the turkey on the kitchen counter.
I set the gift bag beside it.
Then I sat quietly in the dark.
I tried to understand what I had done to deserve such treatment.
Had I become inconvenient?
