Average Family Christmas [FICTION]

“Finally!” I exclaim as I cross yesterday off the calendar.

I still have a week’s worth of lovely leftovers, including plenty of turkey and a whole pumpkin pie, but my mind has moved forward to the upcoming holiday. It is my year to host the family Christmas party and I know this is the year I prove I am worthy. With two sisters, one brother, and my parents the bar gets raised every year, but this year I thought of the perfect gift for everyone—I am hosting at a resort. No one will need to lift a finger to cook or clean. We can focus on the most important parts of Christmas—devouring cookies and trouncing each other at board games and watching our favorite movies over and over even though we know every word by heart.

I open up my Christmas box and pull out the gorgeous, gold foil framed paper I picked up last year. I have been working on the wording of the invitation letter for six months and I have it perfect now. I print out four copies, write four familiar addresses, and drop them in the mail. The I wait.

It doesn’t take long for their responses to come. Each one perplexes me more than the last. My parents call to let me know they hope I have a wonderful Christmas and enjoy my plans. When I ask if they are joining me, they laugh.

“Of course, we made other plans, dear. We Wouldn’t intrude.”

I am still trying to decide what that means when my brother calls. “Got your letter, sis, hope you enjoy your Christmas. Wish I could be there with you, but you know how it is.”

As I set my phone back down on the table, I take a calming breath. “A special sister Christmas will be nice. We can throw in some spa packages.”

As if they scheduled their calls, my sisters then call, back to back. Both of them offer lame excuses. I stand mystified with my phone still in my hand when they finish. After a few minutes of staring blankly at the black screen, I turn it back on and sigh heavily as I begin searching for less perfect presents for my family. Despite aggravation with their obvious rejection of my hosting skills, I know buying them subpar gifts or the lumps of lignite that they deserve will only justify their poor manners in their () minds. Though tempted to have them delivered and go ahead and take the vacation I planned, by myself, I decide to drop them off on their doorsteps personally. Maybe they will feel guilty when they see I went the extra mile, thirty-five miles in the case of my brother, one way.

Almost four weeks later, I bundle up to step out into the light snowfall Santa brought for Christmas Day. I smile jealously at the children up and down the street as they cavort together, forgetting all their small rivalries as pristine snow becomes the clay to mold their icy winter dreams. Ignoring the lump in my throat, I place my array of gifts into the trunk of the car. I decide to stop by my parents’ house first.

At eight in the morning, I expect to find them still tucked into bed. Instead, I find two familiar cars parked in the driveway. Presents forgotten, I step out of my car. I stomp toward the house, slipping on larger chunks of salt festooning the sidewalk. I don’t bother to knock on the door. Clearly, my parents unlocked the door for my sibling, so I am free to enter.

I slam the door closed as I stomp inside. I don’t wipe my feet. Leaving a trail of slush calms me down a little as I enter the living room.

“Hello?” My father calls out.

“Who’s there?” My mother adds.

“Just me!” I exclaim bursting into the room.

The lump returns to my throat as I behold the Christmas card unfolding before me. The golden glow of white lights bounces off gold, silver, and red ornaments. That light gives my family an ethereal quality in their matching pajamas. Surrounding them are piles of shredded wrapping paper and opened gifts.

“Sissy, what are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” I scream. “On Christmas?”

“We thought you wanted to spend Christmas alone…” my sisters inform me in their creepy tandem talk.

“Maybe because a nice young man was about to join the family,” my mother beams hopefully.

“And you know I wouldn’t intrude on your privacy,” my brother takes a long sip of orange juice as he shrugs at me.

“You had plans,” my mother adds matter-of-factly, pulling some piles of paper toward herself and wadding them into a ball.

“I had plans?” I look around at the lot of them incredulously.

“Yes. You said so in that letter you sent us.” My dad stands up to grab a familiar page from the wall of Christmas correspondence. “See?”

I take the paper, wondering what he means as I scan the words.

“Hello, family,

“I know how you all feel about me hosting Christmas. The surprise is on you because since this is my year, I am taking a vacation for the holiday. Don’t worry, you don’t have to lift a finger. My gift to you is that you aren’t invited.”

I gasp. “Why does autocorrect add letters?”

My family exchanges looks. Mom apparently gets nominated to speak for the group. “What does that mean?”

“I wanted us all to go on vacation together,” I groan, “and have other people clean up after us. I saved up all last year to pay for it.”

“Oh,” my mother says, stepping forward to hug me. “That sounds wonderful dear. Maybe, next time it is your turn, you should read the invite a couple of times before sending it out.”

Everyone else nods agreement and pulls me into a holiday hug.

~

I know it sounds far-fetched, but autocorrect has been doing weird things like this to me a lot lately. It takes a word that is spelled correctly and turns it into two words that make zero sense in whatever I am typing, so be wary of autocorrect trying to ruin your best-laid plans. Also, please let me know if you see something funky in this post. I am passing on my final edit because I have Christmas cards to write, decorations to put up, and a million other tasks banging at my door.