25th December
I never thought Id have to write something like this, but perhaps this is the only place where this feeling fits. Its Boxing Day now, and I still cant quite shake what happened last night. I suppose writing it down will help.
Last year, as every year as far back as I can remember, my brother Tom and I spent Christmas together. Only three years apart Im 41 now, Tom is 38 weve always been close. There were never any great secrets between us; we shared a room, a garden, hand-me-down jumpers, and in the difficult moments, we always somehow found our way back to each other. But since Tom married Rachel, somethings changed. Ive resisted admitting it, but its there all the same.
The first signs came creeping in early December, when Tom, for the first time in my memory, didnt send me a word about Christmas. Normally, wed have planned it all by now whos bringing the pudding, reminders about crackers, the usual teasing.
On Christmas Eve, I stopped making excuses for him. It was clearer by the hour: I hadnt been invited. But this is my brother, isnt it? It was unthinkable that I would spend Christmas alone, that Tom would want that. So I reasoned, if he cant say the words, Ill do it for him.
At about six oclock on the 24th, I texted to ask what time hed come to collect me. No reply. I called phone off. Dread started crawling up my spine. So I did what any sister would do; I called a cab straight to their house in Manchester.
When I arrived, I heard laughter, Christmas songs, the unmistakable sound of children tearing around, the hum of a bustling table. I almost hesitated, seeing the glowing windows, but steeled myself and rang the bell.
Tom opened the door. Ive never seen him look so stricken. He hugged me, brief and stiff, eyes flickering behind me into the hallway, fretful.
Oh Lizzie I didnt know you were coming.
Funny, I said, because you never told me anything. So here I am. Is something the matter?
He paused, glancing back into the house, reluctant, weighing something up. He let me in.
The sight stopped me short. The whole of Rachels family was there cousins, uncles, even their neighbours. All around the table, all except me.
Rachel greeted me with that tight, painted-on smile and carried on dishing up, not really meeting my eye, the way youd do with someone you were hoping wouldnt ask to stay.
I sat awkwardly on the sofa, invisible, wishing the ground would open up. In the hush, I heard Rachel in the kitchen, low to her mother but certain she thought I wouldnt hear:
I told you shed turn up and spoil the evening. I never wanted people like her here.
People like me? What could that mean? Had I unwittingly done something so terrible?
My breath tightened and I bit my lip to hold back tears.
Tom heard as well. His face went pale, but he came over and sat beside me.
Dont mind her, Lizzie. Shes just… well, thats how she is.
I looked at him, close to tears: How is she? What have I done? Should I really feel like an unwelcome guest in my brothers home?
For once, Tom didnt dress it up. He just looked defeated.
She didnt want me to invite you. She says youre too opinionated, that youre always trying to help and get involved, and that you wont let things go. I didnt want a row at Christmas.
I couldnt believe it. Tom, my own brother, had chosen peace and quiet over me the sister who stood by him all his life.
I didnt make a scene. I just stood up, picked up my coat, and said quietly, You neednt worry, Tom. Im leaving.
He pleaded with me to stay, but I couldnt not where I clearly didnt belong.
I walked to the street corner, my chest tight.
Back at my flat, I heated some chicken and rice, ate it at the kitchen table alone, flicking through old Christmas photos of Tom and me. Something in me unravelled I realised he hadnt stood up for me, for us, for the decades wed shared.
We havent spoken since. He says hell pop by sometime soon. I dont know if Ill answer the door or let things slip away for good.
One thing is certain: I wont be spending this Christmas with them.
