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.

Neil handled the rest.

The groceries.

The arrival times.

The questions.

The room assignments.

The texts about whether the house had enough wine glasses.

The request from Colleen for a particular bakery pie available only thirty miles away.

The panic when Ryan realized nobody had bought coffee.

The argument over who was sleeping where.

The question from Marcy about whether there would be enough towels.

On Christmas Eve morning, I found Neil standing in the kitchen staring at three grocery bags.

“What’s wrong?”

“I forgot butter.”

“There’s some in the refrigerator.”

“Not enough.”

“For what?”

“Potatoes. Rolls. The sauce.”

I poured coffee.

He looked at me.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“About butter?”

“About me forgetting it.”

“No.”