Shattered Holidays: The Winter I Stood Between My Parents

“You can’t make me go, Emily! I won’t sit across from that man and pretend we’re still a family.” My mom’s voice cracked as she stuffed cranberry sauce into a plastic container, slamming the lid shut. I stood in the kitchen, backpack on my shoulder, watching her hands tremble. Through the window, my dad’s old Chevy idled at the curb, engine breathing white clouds into the November air.

That was Thanksgiving, 1997. I was sixteen, and the holidays had become a battlefield. Since the divorce two years before, my brother Dylan and I had been shuffled back and forth like misdelivered mail. Mom and Dad hadn’t spoken a civil word since the day he left. Every December, I braced myself for the negotiation: which house for turkey, which house for presents, which house for New Year’s Eve. I hated it.

Mom wiped her eyes on her sleeve and forced a smile. “You have a good time with your dad, okay? Tell him… actually, don’t tell him anything. Just—be good.”

“I wish you’d come,” I said, my voice small. I knew she wouldn’t. The previous Christmas, she’d shut herself in her room with a bottle of merlot while Dylan and I exchanged gifts alone.

“Em, I can’t.” She pressed a hand to her chest like she was holding herself together. “Don’t ask me to.”

I met Dad at the curb, shivering. He hugged me, awkward and stiff. “Ready, kiddo?” I nodded. He tried to act cheery, but I saw the way his eyes flicked to the house, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mom at the window. He never did.

At Dad’s duplex, Dylan and I sat across from each other, picking at microwaved mashed potatoes while Dad attempted jokes that fell flat. He’d ask about school, pretending not to care that Mom’s name never came up. I knew he missed her, but pride kept him from saying so. Pride was a family trait, apparently.

The next morning, Dylan and I waited our turn for Dad’s dial-up internet so we could check our email and AIM messages. I caught him staring at a photo on Dad’s fridge: the four of us at Disney World, sunburned and smiling. We didn’t look like us anymore.

“Do you ever wish they’d just get over it?” I whispered.

Dylan snorted. “They’re too stubborn. You know Mom. You know Dad.”

“Yeah,” I sighed. “But I’m tired. Aren’t you tired?”

He shrugged, looking away. “It’s not our job to fix them.”

But I felt like it was. I was so tired of pretending, of choosing sides, of empty chairs at every holiday meal. That Christmas, I decided I wouldn’t let it happen again.

The week before Christmas, I wrote them both a letter. I spent hours at my desk, hand cramping, tears smudging the ink. I told them how much it hurt to see our family split down the middle, how every holiday felt like a battleground, how I missed the sound of laughter filling one house instead of two. I begged them: just one dinner, all of us together. For me, for Dylan. For the family we once were.

I left the letters on their pillows, then hid out at the library after school, heart pounding, afraid of what I’d set in motion. When I got home, Mom was washing dishes, her face streaked with tears, the letter curled on the counter.

She didn’t say a word. Just pulled me into a hug so tight it hurt. I felt her tears soak my hair.

That night, Dad called. “Em, I got your letter.” His voice was rough. “I’m willing if your mom is.”

I waited for Christmas Eve like a prisoner waiting for parole. The plan was simple: dinner at Mom’s, all four of us. I set the table, hands shaking, while Mom changed outfits three times. Dylan paced the hall, muttering, “This is a bad idea, Em. They’ll just fight.”

The doorbell rang. Mom froze, wine glass half-raised. I opened the door to Dad, who stood there with a store-bought pie and a nervous smile. For a moment, no one moved.

“Hey, Anne,” Dad said, voice soft.

“Hi, Mike,” Mom replied, eyes darting everywhere but his face.

We ate in awkward silence, utensils clinking. Then, as if a switch flipped, Dad told a story about the time Dylan got his head stuck in the banister. Mom cracked a smile. Dylan groaned. I laughed, relief washing over me like warm water.

Conversation came in fits and starts, but it came. After dinner, we played Scrabble, just like we used to. For one night, we were a family again—not perfect, but together.

When Dad left, Mom watched from the window, her hand pressed to the glass. She didn’t wave, but she didn’t turn away, either.

It wasn’t a miracle. The next year, we were back to separate holidays. But something had shifted. Dad came inside when he picked us up. Mom sent leftovers home with us. The silence thawed, little by little.

Now, years later, I still think about that Christmas Eve. How it took a sixteen-year-old to break the stalemate. How pride almost cost us everything. Sometimes I wonder: why is it so hard for us to forgive the people we love? And what would have happened if I’d never spoken up?