When Every Holiday Hurts: A Story of Broken Traditions and Healing

“Your wife ruins every single holiday, Alex. I just can’t do this anymore.”

My mother’s voice crackled through my phone, sharp and cold, like the wind that rattled the windows of my apartment in Pittsburgh. Thanksgiving was three days away, and instead of looking forward to turkey and laughter, I found myself standing in the kitchen, knuckles white against the countertop, wondering how I’d patch things up this time.

I could hear Irena in the living room, softly humming as she folded laundry. She didn’t know about the latest phone call. I didn’t want her to. Not yet. But secrets have a way of leaking out, like steam from a pot left boiling too long. My stomach churned.

Last Christmas, my mom had thrown a fit because Irena made pierogi instead of mashed potatoes. On the Fourth of July, she left early, muttering that Irena’s salad tasted like vinegar and regret. Every holiday, it was something else. Something small, maybe, but it always exploded into something huge.

I stared at my reflection in the microwave, the ghost of a man who was once excited to have two strong women in his life. Now I was just tired. Tired of being the referee. Tired of feeling like I was losing both of them.

The next morning, Irena came up behind me as I poured coffee. “What did your mom say yesterday?”

I hesitated.

“Alex?” She touched my shoulder, waiting for the truth.

I sighed, “She… she thinks you ruin the holidays.”

She flinched, but her voice didn’t waver. “Of course she does. I can’t do anything right.”

“That’s not true,” I said, but it sounded weak even to me.

She walked away, her footsteps echoing in the silence. I wanted to call after her, to promise I’d fix it, but the words caught in my throat. Instead, I texted Mom.

— Irena suggests we all meet at a restaurant this year. Neutral ground. Maybe it’ll help? —

A minute passed. Then two. My phone buzzed.

— Fine. But let Irena pick the place ahead of time. No changing restaurants last minute. —

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. Maybe this would work.

“Mom’s in,” I told Irena that night. She shrugged, not meeting my eyes. “Okay. I’ll find somewhere nice.”

On Thanksgiving Day, we met at a cozy place in Squirrel Hill. The air smelled of roasted turkey and cinnamon. Irena wore her favorite green dress. My mom wore her pearls, her armor for family occasions.

We sat in awkward silence, stabbing at our food. I tried to make conversation. “The Steelers are having a decent season, huh?”

Mom grunted. Irena smiled thinly. The waiter asked if we wanted dessert; Mom said she’d rather have Irena’s apple pie. Irena’s cheeks flushed.

“Maybe next year,” she said softly.

Mom rolled her eyes. “That’s what you said last year.”

I clenched my fork. “Can’t we just enjoy one meal together?”

Mom’s face hardened. “Not when I feel like a stranger at my own family’s table.”

Irena looked at me, her lips trembling. “I’m trying, Alex. I really am.”

I wanted to scream. But I didn’t. I just sat there, feeling the old hurt twist in my chest.

After dinner, I walked Mom to her car. The cold bit through my jacket.

“She doesn’t care about our family,” Mom said, her breath steaming in the air. “She wants things her way. She’s taking you from me.”

“That’s not true, Mom. She just wants to be included. To make her own traditions.”

Mom’s eyes shone. “You used to love my Thanksgivings. Now everything’s changed.”

“Things change, Mom. People change. But I love you both.”

She hugged me, but it felt like goodbye.

Back home, I found Irena sitting on the edge of the bed, wiping tears away.

“Why does she hate me?” she whispered.

“She doesn’t. She just… she misses how things were.”

“I can’t win, Alex. No matter what I do, I’m not good enough.”

I sat beside her, holding her hand, wishing I had the right words. “Maybe… maybe we need to do things differently. Stop trying to force everyone together. Make our own memories.”

She squeezed my fingers. “Does that mean giving up on your mom?”

I shook my head. “It means letting go of what’s hurting us. Maybe if we stop pretending, something good will grow.”

We spent Christmas alone that year. It was quiet, but peaceful. I called Mom on New Year’s Eve. She didn’t pick up.

Months passed. I sent invitations for Mother’s Day brunch. No response. I left voicemails, texts. Silence.

Irena and I built new traditions—pizza on the Fourth, road trips on Labor Day. We laughed more, fought less.

One rainy Sunday in October, there was a knock at the door. Mom stood there, soaked and trembling.

“I miss you,” she said. “Can I come in?”

I nodded, tears stinging my eyes. Irena made tea. We sat, the three of us, uncertain but together.

“I’m sorry,” Mom whispered. “I was scared. Scared of losing you. Scared of being forgotten.”

Irena took her hand. “You’re family. You always will be.”

We cried. We talked. We forgave—slowly, awkwardly. But it was a start.

Now, every holiday is different. Sometimes we’re all together. Sometimes not. But we’re honest about our feelings, even when it hurts.

Sometimes I wonder—does every family break before it can heal? Or are some wounds just too deep? What do you think?