For years, hosting Christmas wasn’t a choice I made—it quietly became my responsibility. My home was the largest, the most central, and apparently that alone made it the default holiday headquarters. Nobody formally asked me to do it; it was just assumed. Every December, the same unspoken expectation settled in: I would host, plan, pay, and manage the chaos so everyone else could relax and enjoy the holidays. At first, I told myself it was an honor. I convinced myself that bringing everyone together was meaningful. I rearranged furniture to fit extra tables and chairs, built menus weeks ahead of...
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