coming because of you anyway, Liv.”
“Can I bring dessert?”
I watched my mother’s carefully curated empire begin to tilt, one polite message at a time.
Tell me, if you discovered your mom secretly emptied your college fund to rescue your golden boy brother, would you still play nice at Christmas? Or would you start rewriting the guest list, too?
By the end of the day, my apartment was becoming Plan B.
The real Christmas.
People kept texting, asking what to bring, what time to come, whether kids were welcome.
