Christmas has always meant one thing to me: family. That’s why, for the last four years, my husband Ethan, our seven-year-old daughter Maddie, our five-year-old son Noah, and I had created a tradition just for us. Every Christmas, we escaped to the islands.
No schedules. No crowded dinners. No pressure.
Just the four of us, sunshine on our skin, salt in our hair, and time to breathe before the chaos of holiday visits and obligations began.
This year was supposed to be exactly the same.
But it wasn’t.
When we pulled into our driveway after our trip, I felt my stomach drop.
Our house looked… wrong.
At first, my brain couldn’t even process what I was seeing. Then it hit me all at once.
Eggs. Everywhere.
Raw egg yolk slid down the walls in sticky yellow streaks. Broken shells crunched under our tires. The porch was a mess, and the Christmas wreath I had spent hours crafting—pinecones, ribbon, tiny bells—was ruined, dripping and foul-smelling.
I froze in my seat.
“What the hell?” Ethan muttered as he got out of the car, Noah jumping down right behind him.
“Mom, what happened?” Maddie asked, her small voice nervous from the backseat.
“I… I don’t know, sweetheart,” I said, forcing calm even as my chest tightened.
Noah crouched near the porch, staring at the mess with wide eyes.
“Could a bird do this, Dad?” he asked seriously.
I almost laughed, but the anger burned too hot.
This wasn’t an accident.
Inside, I was furious.
Who would do this to us?
We were good neighbors—no, we were great neighbors. I baked cookies for new families, helped organize block parties, watched pets, accepted packages, and always showed up when someone needed help.
This wasn’t random vandalism.
It was personal.
Then Ethan found the note.
It was shoved under the doorframe, damp and crumpled. He handed it to me without a word.
This is for what you took from me before Christmas.
My hands shook as I read it again.
And again.
“What did I take?” I whispered. “And from who?”
That night, after the kids were finally asleep, Ethan and I went straight to the security cameras. My heart pounded as we scrolled through the footage.
There it was.
A hooded figure crept up our driveway, cartons of eggs in hand. Each throw was careful. Practiced. Angry. This wasn’t a prank by bored teenagers.
“This is insane,” Ethan said. “Who even does this anymore? Eggs and toilet paper? This is high school stuff.”
But I wasn’t listening.
Something about the figure made my breath catch.
The way they tilted their head.
The way their shoulders slumped between throws.
A feeling of dread washed over me.
“No,” I whispered, shaking my head. “No… it can’t be.”
But it was.
The person egging our house was my mother.
The next morning, I left Ethan with the kids and drove straight to my mom’s house. My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles ached.
When I rang the bell, she opened the door with her usual warm smile.
“Ellie! What a surprise!”
“Why?” I blurted out, skipping every polite word. “Just tell me why.”
Her smile vanished.
“Why what? Explain what?” she asked, confused.
“Why would you do that to us?” I said, my voice shaking. “Don’t pretend, Mom. I saw the footage.”
Her face drained of color. She looked away.
“Come sit down, El,” she said quietly.
“I don’t want to sit,” I snapped. “I want to know why you destroyed my house.”
She took a deep breath.
“It was because of your mother-in-law.”
“What?” I stared at her. “What does Gloria have to do with this?”
“She called me,” my mom said sharply. “Right before Christmas. She told me how you and Ethan took her on your island vacation. How included she felt. How special. How much time she had with the kids.”
My heart dropped.
“And me?” she continued bitterly. “I was just left alone. In the cold.”
“Mom,” I said softly. “That’s not true. We didn’t take Gloria. She wasn’t there. I swear.”
Her eyes widened.
“Then… why would she say that?”
“To hurt you,” I said firmly. “To make you feel exactly like this. Why would I take her and not my own mother?”
She collapsed onto the couch, covering her face.
“I felt invisible,” she sobbed. “Like I didn’t matter anymore. And I lost control.”
Her words hurt because they held truth.
I had let her drift away. Not on purpose—but life got busy. Two kids. A full-time job. A thousand responsibilities. I hadn’t noticed how quiet she’d become. How she stopped dropping by with baked treats. How her voice hesitated on the phone.
“Mom,” I said gently, sitting beside her. “What you did was wrong. But I understand why you were hurt. And I’m sorry. I should’ve been there more.”
She looked at me, tears spilling.
“I’ll fix it,” she said quickly. “I’ll pay for everything. I’ll do whatever you want.”
“We’ll clean it together,” I said. “But first, we fix us. No more letting other people poison what we have.”
She nodded, relief flooding her face. We hugged, and for the first time in years, it felt like the wall between us cracked.
That afternoon, she came over with buckets, rags, and soap. Together, we scrubbed eggs off the walls, the porch, the windows.
It was gross. Exhausting. Smelly.
But with every wipe, it felt like we were washing away years of silence.
That night, after grilled cheese and bedtime stories, Ethan and I sat with wine.
“Gloria called my mom,” I said. “She lied. Said she was on vacation with us.”
“You’re kidding,” Ethan said. “Why would she do that?”
“I don’t know,” I sighed. “But you need to talk to her. My mom needs me right now.”
“I’ll call her,” he said firmly.
While Ethan called his mother, I called mine.
“Mom, come spend New Year’s Eve with us,” I said. “Just food, drinks, and family.”
“You really mean that?” she asked, hopeful.
“I do,” I said. “It’s time.”
On New Year’s Eve, she arrived glowing. Dumplings, chocolate cake, lamingtons in hand. Maddie and Noah clung to her, laughing. Ethan poured champagne and even made her laugh.
At midnight, we raised our glasses.
“Cheers to new beginnings,” my mom said softly.
A week later, we met Gloria.
“I lied,” she admitted. “I was lonely. I was hurt.”
“Why didn’t you just spend time together?” I asked. “You were both alone.”
She looked down.
“I wasn’t thinking.”
“I’ll make it right,” she promised.
And she did.
Slowly, our mothers rebuilt their bond. Now they’re mahjong partners who bake every weekend.
And me?
I can’t stand eggs anymore.