A Holiday Spark: When Home Stops Feeling Like Home

The sharp scent of something burnt hit me before I even got the key in the door. I paused on the second-floor landing, clutching the grocery bag a little tighter, my fingers cold even through the plastic. This was supposed to be the start of Thanksgiving break—my first time back home since moving out for college. I’d pictured laughter, a table crowded with food, my little brother’s basketball bouncing down the hall. Not a hallway drowned in soapy water and the kind of silence that crackled, like static before a storm.

“God, again?” I muttered, stepping over a wet towel someone had thrown down in a half-hearted attempt to mop up the mess. Apartment 2B’s door was wide open; Mrs. Clark was yelling at her son about leaving the stove on. It was the kind of chaos I used to find comforting as a kid—the hum of neighbors, the smell of dinner from every door. But today, it just felt like warning signs.

I pushed open our door. The familiar creak on the third hinge, the pictures of my brother and me at Disney World, Mom’s faded Welcome Friends sign. I tossed the flowers I’d grabbed last-minute onto the hallway table, kicked off my shoes, and braced myself.

“Mom? I’m home!” I shouted. No answer. The kitchen was a disaster zone; flour dusted every surface, and something dark and sticky was congealing on the stovetop. My brother, Ethan, leaned against the fridge, scrolling through his phone, earbuds in. I ruffled his hair. “Hey, when did you get so tall?”

He shrugged, eyes never leaving the screen. “Six months’ll do that.”

I opened the fridge, hunting for a soda, and found a six-pack of beer instead. Not the cheap stuff Dad used to buy, but the expensive craft brew my mom always swore she’d never waste money on. My stomach tightened. A loud crash from the living room made me jump.

Dad’s voice, slurred and angry: “You can’t just throw everything out! That’s my dinner!”

Mom’s reply was sharp, brittle as icicles: “You’re drunk again, Dave! On Thanksgiving!”

I froze, the can of soda halfway to my lips. Ethan was still pretending not to hear, but his thumbs were trembling over the phone screen. I wanted to run back out into the hall, to pretend this wasn’t happening, but I made myself walk into the living room.

My dad’s face was red, his eyes glassy. He glared at the trash bag in Mom’s hands. She was shaking, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, flour on her cheek like a bruise.

“Dad, what are you doing?” I heard myself say, my voice way too loud in the thick air.

He laughed, bitter and low. “Your mother thinks she can just decide for everyone. She always did.”

“Don’t start this in front of the kids,” Mom snapped, looking at me, her eyes pleading. “Please, not today.”

I set the soda down, suddenly nauseous. “Can we just—eat? Like, just for tonight?”

Dad muttered something about ‘respect’ and stomped into the bedroom. The door slammed. The walls shook.

Mom sank onto the couch, head in her hands. “I’m sorry, honey. I wanted this to be special. I really did.”

I sat beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Her skin felt cold. “It’s okay, Mom. We’ll figure it out. We always do, right?”

But I wasn’t sure I believed it anymore. The holidays weren’t magic anymore. They were a minefield.

Ethan slunk over, sitting on the floor in front of us. “He’s worse than last year,” he whispered. “He drinks every night now. Sometimes he doesn’t even come home.”

Mom wiped her eyes. “I know. I called Uncle Mike. He said we could stay with them if we need to.”

The thought of leaving this apartment—my room with the glow-in-the-dark stars, the mural I painted on the closet door—made my throat close up. But the idea of living in fear, of watching Mom flinch every time Dad opened a beer, was worse.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. I tried to help Mom with the turkey, but she kept burning things. Ethan curled up on the couch, headphones on, lost in another world. Dad didn’t come out of the bedroom, not even when Grandma called from Florida. “Tell everyone I’m sick,” Mom said, her voice dull.

We ate dinner in silence. The turkey was dry, the stuffing burnt. I tried to make jokes, but nobody laughed. When Dad finally stumbled out, he avoided our eyes and poured himself another drink.

Later, after Ethan went to bed, I heard Mom crying in the bathroom. I knocked softly. “Mom? Can I come in?”

She opened the door, wiping her face with a towel. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I never wanted this for you.”

I hugged her, holding on tight. “It’s not your fault. But maybe…maybe we can change it. Together.”

She nodded, but her eyes were far away. “I just wish he loved us more than the bottle.”

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know how to fix it. All I knew was that home wasn’t safe anymore, and that realization hurt more than anything.

That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. I remembered Thanksgivings when Dad would spin me around the kitchen while Mom sang along to the radio, Ethan giggling under the table. I wondered if those memories were ever real—or if I’d made them up to survive nights like this.

People say the holidays are about family, about coming home. But what if coming home means stepping back into pain you thought you’d left behind? What if the only way to save your family is to finally walk away?

Is home a place, or the people you choose to fight for—even when it hurts? What would you do if the people you love are the ones who break you?