When Santa Didn’t Remember My Kids
The automobile was so quiet that it felt like it was choking. It wasn’t the calm, quiet of a winter night; it was the thick, strangling silence that comes after a bomb goes off. I could see my six-year-old son Jake looking out the window in the backseat. Tears fell silently down his cheeks, where they caught the light from passing lamps. My eight-year-old daughter Emma was next to him, tugging at a loose thread on her Christmas dress. Her lower lip was shaking.
“Mommy,” Emma muttered, her voice so little that it was hard to hear above the sound of the engine. “What did we do wrong? Why doesn’t Santa like us?”
My hands got tighter around the steering wheel till my knuckles turned white. The suffering was real. It stopped me from stopping and yelling till my throat bled.
I said, “You didn’t do anything wrong, baby,” and my voice broke. “Adults sometimes make big blunders. And you was injured because of things that had nothing to do with you.
My husband David sat next to me in the passenger seat and stared straight ahead. His jaw was so tense that I could see the muscle moving in his face. He put his palm over mine, like a silent anchor in the storm.
We were on our way home from Christmas morning at my mom’s house. A morning that was intended to be special. A morning that concluded with my kids crying on the floor of the living room.
The Morning That Broke Everything
We had just gotten at Mom’s place thirty minutes ago, and the excitement in our automobile was like lightning. Emma had been awake since five in the morning because she was too excited to sleep. Jake wore his favorite reindeer sweater, the one with the light-up nose that he had chosen out just for Grandma Patricia’s house.
It seemed like a toy store had blown up in the living room, but only on one side. Tyler, Sophia, and Mason, my sister Michelle’s three kids, were buried in a pile of wrapping paper. You could scarcely see the kids under all the gaming systems, new bikes, tablets, and designer outfits that were heaped so high. It was an absurd show of luxury that made my small teacher’s income feel like pocket money.
There was nothing on the other side of the room, where my kids always sat to open gifts. There was just an empty beige carpet that looked like a wilderness.
Emma had come up slowly, and her eyes were exploring the room with more and more bewilderment. She searched under the tree, behind the couch, and behind the fireplace, which were all places where gifts may be hidden. She had turned to my mother with the innocent, trusting look that only an eight-year-old can pull off.
“Grandma Patricia, where are the gifts we sent you?”
My mother had gazed down at her, this beautiful, charming girl who had made her a card and brought her favorite cookies. Something nasty flashed across her face. She laughed, and it was a harsh, bitter sound that made my stomach turn.
She said, “Santa doesn’t like ungrateful kids,” and her voice was full of clear happiness that could be heard across the room.
The words hung in the air like poison gas. Emma’s face fell. Jake, who had been looking at Tyler’s new bike with naive enthusiasm, stopped in the middle of reaching for it.
My sister Michelle had made fun of me while sitting in Mom’s favorite chair like a queen looking over her domain. “Well, you know, my kids deserve more.” And if there are any gifts for yours, they’ll go to mine. Don’t even think about fighting.
I gazed around the room at the faces of my relatives. My uncle is acting like he’s really into his phone. My aunt suddenly wanted to change the decorations on the tree. Brad, Michelle’s husband, was smirking into his coffee cup. And my mom stood there with her arms crossed, daring me to make a scene.
I didn’t fight back. I didn’t yell. I didn’t let them watch me break down in front of my kids.
I just took Emma’s and Jake’s hands and went out. I could hear Michelle’s happy chuckle and Mom muttering something about “teaching them a lesson” behind us.
Saving Christmas
David and I rushed to rescue what was left of Christmas when we got inside our small three-bedroom house. We took out the additional gifts we had hidden in the attic: extra Lego sets, art supplies, and books we had bought “just in case” during last year’s post-holiday bargains. We hurriedly wrapped them in extra paper while the kids waited in the living room, claiming we had been preparing a “second Christmas” all along.
We acted brave. We played games on a board. We created hot chocolate with more marshmallows. We let them stay up late and watch their favorite Christmas movies.
The kids were smiling again by nightfall, and their strength was a miracle I didn’t deserve. Kids are quite skilled at adjusting and finding happiness even in the middle of disappointment. But I understood that the damage had already been done. I could tell by the way Emma kept looking at the gifts we gave them, as if she were checking to see whether they were real. I heard it in Jake’s query before bed: “Mommy, am I ungrateful?””
“No, baby. You’re just right. You are kind, giving, and everything nice in the world.
But as they were sleeping, the anger I had been keeping back all day suddenly came out.
The Start of the Investigation
I was at the kitchen table with my laptop, a pot of coffee that would keep me awake till dawn, and a burning urge to know what was going on. David came over and pulled his chair close so that our shoulders touched.
“What are you thinking?””he asked in a low voice.
I said, “I think I’ve been blind.” “I’m thinking that I need to know exactly how we got here.”
I had always been the one who took care of things in my family. The one who worked her way through college while Michelle failed at a number of majors and had fun. The one who became a high school English teacher while Michelle went from boyfriend to boyfriend and job to job. The one who sent Mom money every month because she said she was having trouble making ends meet on her limited salary.
For three years, I had been sending my mom between five hundred and a thousand bucks every month. She would contact me, sounding frantic—a broken furnace that needed to be fixed right away, dental treatment that insurance wouldn’t pay for, or a car repair that couldn’t wait. And every time, I sent the money without asking any questions. That’s what good girls do, isn’t it? They look after their mothers.
I started digging now that I could still hear my kids crying.
I went to the website for public property records. I looked at social media profiles that I hadn’t had time to check. I asked Detective Maria Reynolds, a private investigator I knew from a school safety committee, for a favor.
“Sarah,” Maria had remarked when I called her that night. “It’s Christmas.” This has to be bad.
I said, “Yes, it is.” “I need to know where my money has been going.”
What I found over the next few days made me sick to my stomach.
The Money Trail
First, I found out that Michelle and her husband Brad were in a lot of debt. The lovely house they lived in, with the pool and the three-car garage that Mom often talked about, was going to be sold. Public documents show that they were four months behind on their mortgage payments. Brad had lost his job as a sales manager six months ago and hadn’t found a new one yet. Michelle’s part-time job at a fancy store barely paid for their groceries.
But they still lived like kings and queens. There are new cars in the driveway. Hawaii vacation pictures shared only two months ago. And it looks like a Christmas morning that cost thousands of dollars.
What was the source of the money?
Next, I looked for Mom’s property records. Dad made sure that the house she resided in was paid off before he died ten years ago. She should have been able to live well on her pension from teaching. So why are there always “emergencies”?
Maria contacted me again two days after Christmas. She sounded professional but sad.
“Sarah, I found the path.” Your mom isn’t having money problems. She is genuinely very comfy. But she’s been sending Michelle money for years.
“How much money?”I asked, even though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
“According to bank data I was able to get through public papers linked to the foreclosure, your mother has given Michelle more than sixty thousand dollars in the last two years alone. But here’s the part that’s going to make you mad—
“More angry than I already am?””
“Yes.” Every time you paid your mother money for medical bills, home repairs, or anything else she said she needed, it went right into Michelle’s account within twenty-four to forty-eight hours. “All of them.”
I closed my eyes because I felt sick. I had been giving money to the people who made my kids feel bad. I had been paying for the gaming machines my nephew was using right now, and my daughter was crying because she was ungrateful.
The coffee I had been drinking was about to come back up. David put his hand on my shoulder to steady me.
Maria went on, “There’s more.” “Brad doesn’t aware that Michelle has a savings account. Three years ago, she got $15,000 from her grandfather’s will. She has been hiding it while saying they are poor.
The Web of Lies
But the money treachery was only the start. When I reached out to my aunts, uncles, and cousins who I hadn’t talked to in years because Mom said we were “naturally drifting apart,” I saw a darker pattern.
First, I called my cousin Rebecca. We were close when we were kids, but for some reason, our friendship had gotten colder over the past five years.
Rebecca exclaimed, “Sarah,” and her voice was shaky when I told her what occurred on Christmas. “I had no idea.” I’m so sorry. Aunt Patricia informed us that you were jealous of Michelle. She told me that you were jealous of her success and that you always made trouble at family events. That’s why we stopped asking you to come to things.
“Success?”I laughed, but it wasn’t funny. “Michelle is going to lose her home.”
“What?Rebecca’s shock seemed real. “But Patricia claimed Michelle was doing great. She mentioned that Michelle and Brad were giving her money since you wouldn’t.
The lies were so well thought out and put together that I almost respected the work that went into them. Not quite.
Next, I contacted Aunt Linda, my dad’s sister. We had always been close until she suddenly stopped talking to me approximately three years ago.
When I told Aunt Linda everything, she remarked, “Oh, honey.” “Patricia said you were experiencing trouble with your marriage. She mentioned you were angry with David because he wasn’t ambitious enough. She said you were taking your anger out on the family, which is why you stopped going to gatherings.
“I stopped coming because no one asked me to,” I remarked softly.
The other end’s quiet spoke a lot.
I called my cousin Marcus. I called Jim, my uncle. I contacted my uncle, who lived two states away but still sent me Christmas cards every year.
The pattern was the same. Mom had told everyone a different story about what happened, and each one was deliberately crafted to ruin that relationship. She told Aunt Linda that I was unhappy with my marriage. She told Marcus that I wouldn’t go to his daughter’s graduation because I couldn’t stand seeing other kids do well. In reality, I had never been invited. She told Uncle Jim that I had asked to borrow money from him and was furious when he said no. This conversation never happened.
She had gradually cut me off from my whole extended family, making me look unstable, jealous, and hard to deal with. She had made up a story in which I was the bad kid, the black sheep who needed to be kept in check and handled.
And all the time, she was using my money to support her favorite child.
By the end of the year, I had a folder full of bank statements, foreclosure notices, and lies written down. I had phone records that showed how often family members called me, even though I “refused” to talk to them. I never got those calls since Mom had given them an outdated number that I no longer used. I got text messages from cousins that I “ignored” because they were sent to a phone that wasn’t connected.
I had a plan. And I had a strong will.
The Trap Springs
I knew the call would come on New Year’s Day.
While I was making pancakes for the kids, my phone rang. David and I spent New Year’s Eve peacefully at home, while Emma and Jake banged pots together and drank sparkling cider from champagne flutes. Easy. Perfect. Ours.
It was Michelle.
“Sarah!”She cried before I could even say hi. “Thank God you picked up. We need aid. “It’s an emergency.”
I put the phone on speaker and motioned for David to come closer. He turned the pancakes over and stood next to me, his jaw already set.
“What’s wrong, Michelle?”“
“We need fifty thousand dollars,” she yelled, her voice shaking with what could have been real fear. “To save the house.” If we don’t catch up on our payments, the bank will take our house next week. We also owe the IRS money for taxes we didn’t pay. They say they’ll take everything. I realize it’s a lot, but you’re the only one who can help us. “You’re the only one who has money saved up.”
I let the quiet stay for a moment. I could hear her breathing, which was rough and urgent. I could hear kids talking in the background, my niece begging for breakfast.
Then, my mother’s voice came through, strong and forceful. She must have picked up the phone.
“Sarah Elizabeth, you need to listen to me right now!” You owe this family money! After all we’ve done for you and all we’ve given you! You have always been selfish and just thought about yourself. You need to help your sister! Help out your family!”
It was amazing how brave they were. She called my kids ungrateful, watched them cry, and then asked for fifty thousand bucks like it was her entitlement.
I said, “I’ll be right there.”
I hung up before one of them could say anything.
I kissed David, hugged my kids, and promised them I would be back in time to take them to the movies. After that, I got in my car with the folder and drove to Mom’s place.
I didn’t have a checkbook with me.
The Fight
The air was thick with despair when I came inside Mom’s house. Michelle and Brad were seated at the kitchen table with invoices that were past due all over the place, like they were evidence at a murder scene. Mom was walking around with a red face.
Michelle murmured, “Thank goodness,” and wiped her tears with a tissue that was already wet. “I knew you would do it.” You always do. “You’re the one who has to take care of things.”
I was at the front of the table. I didn’t sit down. I opened my folder and took out copies of their bills, like the foreclosure notice, the IRS lien, and the credit card statements that showed charges at fancy restaurants and vacation spots.
I threw them on the floor in front of them. The papers flew around like accusations.
“Tell Santa to pay them,” I said.
There was complete quiet.
“What?””Mom asked, stopping in her tracks. “What are you talking about? Sarah, this is serious!”
“Well,” I responded, my voice firm and chilly, “according to you, Santa doesn’t like ungrateful children. I guess he doesn’t like adults who don’t say thank you either. And since you’ve all been so bad, I don’t think he’s going to help.
Michelle’s hands shook as she rushed to gather up the papers. “Sarah, this isn’t funny. We might lose it all.
“Funny?”I took another stack of papers out of my folder. “Do you want to be funny? Let’s check out these bank statements. These reveal that Mom has been sending you more than $3,000 a month for the last two years. And these…” I threw down another stack. “These are documents of every single cent I sent Mom for her so-called medical crises. Dental procedure that needs to be done right away. Fixing the furnace. Problems with the car. It all went to you, Michelle. “Every cent.”
Mom’s face turned white. “Sarah, I can explain—”
I stopped her off and said, “Oh, I’m sure you can.” “Just like you can explain why you told Aunt Carol that I’m bad with money.” Or why you told Rebecca that I was envious of Michelle. Or why you provided everyone an outdated phone number of mine and told them I wasn’t answering their calls. Would you like to tell them that now? “Because I have them on speakerphone.”
I took my phone out of my pocket and put it on the table with the volume up.
“Hi, Patricia,” Aunt Carol’s voice came through clearly and angrily. “Everyone is listening.” Jim, Linda, Marcus, and Rebecca. We’d like to hear this explanation.
Mom sat down in a chair and looked like she had been hit. Michelle’s eyes were wide with fear as she gazed back and forth between us.
“But that’s in the past!”Michelle shrieked, and her voice got so high that it hurt my ears. “Right now, we need help!” You’re the only one who has the cash! You need to help us!”
“I don’t have money,” I said. “Look, I did some math. The money you need is fifty thousand dollars. That’s almost exactly how much I’ve sent Mom in the last three years. That money is no longer available. But I did have some money saved up. Actually, about fifty-five thousand.
For a brief moment, Michelle seemed hopeful as she leaned forward in her chair.
“I gave it away,” I said. “Yesterday.” In memory of Emma and Jake, fifty-five thousand dollars sent to the Children’s Hospital. The money you seek is already helping kids who really need it. Kids with cancer. Kids have heart problems. “Children who deserve kindness.”
Michelle looked at me in terror, her mouth expanding and shutting like a fish. “You gave away our money?””
“Your money?”I moved closer and leaned over the table till she had to look up at me. “When did my money become yours?” You stood there on Christmas morning and watched my kids cry. You laughed. You said my kids didn’t deserve anything. Michelle, you were right about one thing. You get what you give.
Brad had been quiet the whole time and was slouching in his chair like he wanted to disappear. “Brad, did you know that your wife has a secret savings account?” She got $15,000 from her grandfather’s will, but she never told you about it. The file has everything written down.
Brad’s head turned quickly to Michelle. “What?”
“And Michelle,” I went on, loving the turmoil, “did you know that Brad hasn’t really been hunting for a job? He has been doing cash jobs on the side to keep getting his unemployment payments. That’s a crime. “Fraud at the federal level.”
The room went crazy. Michelle and Brad began to yell at each other. Mom tried to step in, but Aunt Carol’s voice on the phone pierced through the ruckus and demanded answers. Uncle Jim’s voice chimed in and asked why they had been misled to for so long.
“Stop!””I yelled.
They stopped moving and everyone looked at me.
“Here is what is going to happen,” I said, my voice calm but full of assurance. “Mom, you have a choice.” You can keep supporting Michelle’s way of life, or you can start treating people with respect. But you’ll never see another penny from me. Not for a heater. Not for health. Not for a loaf of bread. We both know that your pension is more than enough to live on.
I grabbed my folder and faced the door.
“Oh, and Michelle,” I said, stopping at the door. “You might want to begin packing. This morning, I contacted the bank. Last week, the foreclosure sale really did happen. The bank now owns the house. But I placed an offer on it as a property to rent out. They agreed.
The hush that followed was so complete that I could hear the clock in the kitchen ticking.
Michelle gasped and put her palm to her throat. “You… you bought my house?””
“I bought a house,” I said. “And as the new landlord, I’m giving you thirty days to leave. I’m sure Santa can help you find a new home. “You’ve been such a good girl,” they said.
I left them behind in ruins.
The Aftermath
I could hear the muted noises of their breakup through the walls as I sat in my car in Mom’s driveway, hands shaking on the steering wheel. There were accusations, crying, and the sound of something being hurled. It should have felt like a win. But as I started the engine and drove away, I just felt sad.
Sad for the family we could have been. Sad for the years I lost trying to make people happy who simply saw me as a resource to use up. It’s sad for my kids that their grandmother picked one set of grandchildren over another only because she liked them better.
But I also felt liberated.
The weight I had been carrying for years—the continual worry about Mom’s “emergencies,” the guilt over not being able to offer enough, and the perplexity over why my extended family had grown distant—lifted like fog burning off in the morning sun.
I drove home, opened the door, and saw my family waiting for me. David looked up from the couch where he was reading to the children.
“How did it go?He asked, “What?”
I said, “It’s done.”
Emma ran over and wrapped her arms around my legs. “Are you all right, Mommy?”“
I took her up and hugged her tight, even though she was getting too large for it. “I’m perfect, baby.” Perfect in every way.
The Unraveling
The fallout was quick and violent.
Within three months, Michelle and Brad’s marriage fell apart. There was nothing left to hold them together after the financial house of cards fell apart completely. Brad found the secret savings account and Michelle found out about the unemployment fraud. Brad relocated to Arizona to live with his brother. Michelle was left with three confused kids and a lot of debt.
Michelle had to move in with Mom, and she had to fit her kids into the two extra bedrooms in the house where we grew up. But the stress in that house become too much for me to handle without my monthly payments. Mom’s pension covered her own costs, but not Michelle’s lifestyle. They always argued, and the neighbors complained about the noisy, angry bouts.
Mom’s health decreased dramatically. The tension, along with the loss of her safety net and the breaking of her carefully built lies, got to her. She had troubles with her heart. Her doctor said it was inherited, but I knew that wasn’t true. Every day, you swallow guilt and wrath.
Aunt Carol and Uncle Jim stepped in to make sure she had what she needed, but they made it clear that they would not give her money, pay her bills directly to vendors, or let her manipulate them. Mom didn’t like it, but she had to do it.
If Michelle had displayed even a trace of real sorrow, I could have felt sorry for her in the ways she battled. She had a foreclosure and eviction on her record and no meaningful job experience, so she had to take entry-level retail jobs just to pay the bills. The golden child had lost all of its shine.
But the biggest difference was in my own life.
The extended family got in touch. The invitations started coming when Aunt Carol and the others finally comprehended what had truly transpired. Cousins I hadn’t seen in years asked us to birthday parties and barbecues. Aunts called merely to see how things were going and to say they were sorry for believing Mom’s falsehoods without questioning them.
We developed a group text chat called “The Cousins” that only the younger generation could join. It was more real, lighthearted, and funny than any family get-together had been in a long time.
Rebecca and I were friends again. She said she had always thought there was something wrong with Mom’s stories, but she didn’t know how to ask about them without being disloyal.
One afternoon over coffee, she added, “I should have trusted my gut.” “I’m sorry.”
I told her, “You couldn’t have known.” “She was very good at this.” Very good.
The voicemail
I got a message six months after the fight. I listened to it three times before choosing what to do with it.
It was Michelle.
“Sarah,” her voice was cracked and scratchy, like if she had been crying for hours. “I know you don’t want to talk to me. I understand that you have every right to detest me. But Tyler asked me yesterday if we were the bad people. He is seven years old and questioned me if we were the bad guys in Emma and Jake’s narrative. “I didn’t know what to say.”
There was a long interval, during which she breathed heavily.
“I wanted to emphasize that we weren’t. That it was all simply a mistake. But I couldn’t tell him a lie. Not this. We were the evil people, right? I was so focused on keeping up appearances and convinced myself that I deserved more because my mom always told me I was exceptional. I forgot that you are my sister. I forget that Emma and Jake are kids who never did anything wrong to deserve what we put them through.
Another break.
“I’m not asking for you to forgive me. I don’t deserve it. I just wanted you to know that I see it now. I understand what we did. And I’m sorry. “I’m so sorry.”
The voicemail was over.
I saved it, but I didn’t call back. Not then. Saying “I’m sorry” doesn’t mean letting abuse happen again. It doesn’t mean letting someone injure you again. Sometimes it just means admitting that they now grasp how much agony they caused, even if that realization came too late.
The Service
Mom died a year later. A huge and sudden heart attack. Aunt Carol called me from the hospital, and her voice was shaky.
“Sarah, she’s gone.” It happened so quickly. “I’m so sorry.”
I thanked her for calling and then sat down hard on the couch. David came over and hugged me.
“How do you feel?”He asked, “What?”
I said, “Sad.” “Not for the person she became, but for the mother I wish I had. For the grandmother my kids needed.
David, the kids, and I stood in the rear of the funeral. I didn’t give a eulogy. I didn’t weep. I just paid my respects to the lady who gave me life and the woman who showed me what kind of mother I never wanted to be.
Michelle came up to me at the grave. She seemed exhausted. Used. She had lost twenty pounds and had gray streaks in her hair that weren’t there a year earlier.
She said softly, “Thank you for coming.”
I answered, “She was my mother, too.”
Michelle said, “I’m sorry.” “For everything. I was terrible. I was mean and entitled, and I told myself I deserved more to make it okay. I didn’t. “I got what I deserved.”
I gazed at her. I saw the regret, and this time it was real. But I could also see the years of harm in every line on her face.
“I accept your apology, Michelle,” I said. “But my kids come first. For sure. They’ll choose whether or not they want to be friends with you and your kids. “That’s their choice, not mine.”
She nodded, and tears ran down her face. “That’s fair.” That’s more than fair.
We stood there in quiet for a minute, two sisters who had grown up in the same house but led very different lives.
Michelle added, “For what it’s worth, Tyler and Sophia sometimes ask about Emma and Jake.” That Christmas is still fresh in their minds. “They know what we did was wrong.”
“Maybe one day,” I said. “But not today.”
She nodded and left.
The Christmas That Is
That Christmas, two years after the one that ruined everything, we made our own customs.
On Christmas Eve, we volunteered at a shelter for homeless people and served meals to families that had nowhere else to go. Emma and Jake really liked it. They made cards for the kids, shared their toys, and came home tired but pleased.
It was a tiny and wonderful Christmas morning. Not a lot of pricey gifts, but well-thought-out ones we picked out ourselves. Jake got a telescope because he was obsessed with astronomy. Emma got a journal and some nice pens because she had found out she liked writing stories.
We cooked cinnamon rolls from scratch, and the flour left handprints on the counter and the laughter left fingerprints on our hearts. We played games on the board and watched movies. We made plans for a summer reunion by calling Aunt Carol and the cousins.
“Mommy,” Jake exclaimed as we put him to bed that night, “this was the best Christmas ever.”
“Really?I asked, brushing his hair back from his forehead.
“Yes. Because no one was rude. And everyone was delighted. And Santa did remember us.
Emma, who was in the twin bed across the room, sleepily said, “Santa always remembers the kids who matter.”
I said goodnight to both of them and exited their room. David was waiting for me in the hallway.
“You did well,” he whispered, bringing me close.
I said, “We did well.”
Remembering
People sometimes ask me if I wish I had done things differently. I think I should have worked more to keep in touch with my mom and sister. I feel bad about the house, about telling the truth, and for leaving when they needed aid.
The answer is not simple.
I wish that hadn’t happened at all. I wish my kids hadn’t seen cruelty that no child should experience. I wish I hadn’t spent so many years trying to get love from people who couldn’t give it to me.
But I don’t regret keeping my kids safe. I don’t regret putting their health ahead of bad family ties. I don’t regret shouting “enough” and drawing a line in the sand.
My donation to Children’s Hospital helped pay for a new wing of the pediatric oncology section. They called it the Emma and Jake Wing, and there is a plaque with my kids’ names on it. Every sick child who comes through those doors will be cared for in a room that has the names of two youngsters who learned too young that family isn’t always nice. But it doesn’t mean the world isn’t full of kindness.
I want to leave that behind. Not the fights, not the drama, not the bridges that were burned. It’s just the plain truth that you should always protect the ones you love, even if the individuals who hurt them are related to you.
Three Years Later
Emma is eleven and Jake is nine, three years after that awful Christmas. They are doing so well that it makes my heart swell with pride.
Emma writes stories about girls who are bold and stand up against bullies. She formed a kindness club at school that collects donations for families that need them. I asked her where she got the idea, and she answered, “I remember being sad when Grandma was mean.” I don’t want other kids to feel that way.
Jake is still crazy about space and stars. He talks of wanting to be an astronaut and go to locations that no one has ever been before. He once told me, “Like we did with our family.” “We went to a new place where no one had been mean before.”
I’m amazed by how strong they are. I’m humbled by how forgiving they are. They have started writing letters to their relatives, but only with close supervision. Every day, their realization that they deserved better shows me that I made the right choice.
Last month, Michelle got in touch. She is now a teacher’s aide and is going back to school to acquire her degree. She’s going to therapy. She’s making an effort.
She stated in an email, “I don’t think we’ll be close again.” “But I want you to know that I’m trying to be someone my kids can look up to. Someone who doesn’t make excuses. Someone who is responsible.
I texted back, “I’m proud of you for trying.” Keep going.”
We aren’t sisters as we should be. We probably won’t be able to get that relationship back. But who knows, maybe one day we’ll find something new. Something that is based on respect instead of manipulation and truth instead of entitlement.
The Card for Christmas
This year, for the first time in three years, I’m sending a Christmas card to Michelle’s family.
It’s not a peace offering. It’s not an invitation to come back into our lives. It’s just a way of saying that they are still family in the broadest meaning of the word and that the door isn’t locked; it’s just closed until there is a solid reason to open it.
I scribbled on the inside: “Wishing you peace and growth in the new year.” The kids are doing fine. If everyone is interested, we might be able to set up a supervised playdate in the spring.
Little steps. Take your time. Steps that keep my kids safe while also recognizing that individuals can change, even if they don’t change enough to fix the harm they’ve done.
The Lesson
Would I alter anything if I could go back to that morning three years ago?
I’d go earlier. I would spare my kids the extra thirty seconds of misery and bewilderment. But what about everything else? I would do everything the same way.
Because you have to stick up for your kids. You don’t do things when it’s easy or convenient. When it’s hard, when it costs you something, and when it means leaving people you wanted to love you, you do it.
In that other narrative, Lily’s mother gave her a mop. In mine, there was an empty spot under the tree. But the message was the same: You don’t belong. You are less than. You should be thankful for crumbs.
I took my kids out of that house. I stopped giving money to the people who hurt them. I created a new family structure based on respect for each other instead of one-sided duty.
And you know what? Santa does care about my kids. He likes them very much.
Santa isn’t about the presents under the tree. He believes in the magic of thinking that wonderful things happen to good people, that kindness matters, and that someone out there sees you and thinks you deserve happiness.
My kids know they are worth something now. They know it deep inside, in a way they might not have if I had kept giving them small amounts and teaching them to do the same.
That’s what makes Christmas so special. Not the fight, not the money, and not even the justice of seeing karma work its magic on people who wronged us.
It’s a miracle to see my kids grow up thinking they deserve kindness. Seeing how freely they share that generosity to others. Seeing them make a world where no child ever needs to ask, “Why doesn’t Santa like me?””
Because Santa adores them. The true Santa, the one who lives in love, protection, and standing up for what’s right, loves them totally.
That’s all that matters.
