in your own family,” I said, “this Christmas is for us.”
I saved the video, scheduled it for the evening of the 24th, and put my phone down.
Let the internet watch what happens when you push the quiet kid too far.
Then I got to work.
I called the catering company my mom used every year under my account, of course, because she never wanted anything traceable to her credit.
“Hi, I need to cancel that holiday order,” I said sweetly. “Yes, the entire thing.”
Next, I opened the
