Every year, my husband and his family blamed me for “ruining” Christmas. This year, I finally stopped showing up—and stopped paying for the celebration they expected me to cover. By 6:30 p.m., my phone started ringing over and over. The same people who said I spoiled the holiday were suddenly desperate to know where I was and why nothing was going according to plan.

I could have corrected him publicly.

I didn’t.

Not because I was protecting him.

Because the call was no longer the place for it.

I said, “This year, I’ll pay the same percentage as everyone else.”

Ryan rubbed his jaw.

“What percentage?”

“That depends on who is coming.”

Colleen looked wounded.

“Frank would hate this.”

That landed exactly where she meant it to.

Frank, Neil’s father.

The man whose death had started the tradition.