Christmas is our family’s time to reconnect. For four years, my husband Ethan, our kids Maddie, 7, and Noah, 5, and I have escaped to the islands, soaking up sun before the holiday rush. This year felt the same until we pulled into our driveway. Our house was a disaster—eggs splattered on the walls, shells scattered on the porch, and my handmade wreath ruined with goo. “What happened?” Ethan muttered, stepping out. Maddie asked, “Mom, why’s it like this?” I didn’t know, but anger bubbled inside. We’re good neighbors—I bake for newcomers, help with block parties, always lend a hand. This wasn’t random; it felt personal. Noah wondered, “Did birds do it?” I stayed calm for them, but I was furious.
Ethan spotted a note tucked under the door: “This is for what you stole from me.” My mind raced—what had I taken? That night, after tucking the kids in, we checked our security footage. A hooded figure tossed eggs with purpose, not play. “This is no prank,” Ethan said. “It’s too deliberate.” Then I noticed the figure’s familiar slouch and head tilt. My heart sank—it was my mom. The next morning, I drove to her house, hands tight on the wheel. She greeted me warmly, but I cut in, “Why, Mom?” Her smile faded. “Why what?” she asked, confused. “Why egg our house?” I pressed. She paled, then admitted, “It was about Gloria, Ethan’s mom.”
Gloria had called her before Christmas, bragging about joining our island trip, saying she felt so special with the kids. Mom felt left out, alone in the cold. “She lied,” I said. “Gloria wasn’t with us. She wanted to hurt you.” Mom sank to the couch, stunned. “I felt so ignored, Ellie,” she whispered. “I snapped.” Her words stung—I’d been so busy with work and kids, I hadn’t seen her loneliness. Her calls had grown quieter, her visits rarer, and I’d missed it. “What you did was wrong,” I said, sitting beside her, “but I’m sorry for making you feel forgotten.” She cried, promising to fix it. We agreed to clean the house together and rebuild our bond, no more letting others’ lies divide us.
Mom came over with soap and rags, and we scrubbed the egg mess, laughing through the stink. Each swipe felt like erasing years of distance. That night, over grilled cheese with the kids, Ethan and I talked. “Gloria caused this,” I said. “She lied to hurt Mom.” Ethan called Gloria, demanding answers, while I invited Mom for New Year’s Eve. She arrived with dumplings and cake, dazzling in a sparkly dress. The kids hugged her, Ethan joked, and at midnight, we toasted new beginnings under fireworks. Later, we met Gloria for coffee. She admitted lying out of loneliness, feeling left out. “Why not visit Mom?” I asked. She vowed to make amends with a tea party. Now, our moms are mahjong pals, baking weekly. I can’t look at eggs the same, but our family’s stronger.
