I always believed that the more roots a family has, the stronger the tree grows. Relatives, even new ones, even those not always close—they are still people fate has bound together. My husband and I made an effort to build ties with everyone: our son-in-law’s parents, distant cousins—especially after our eldest daughter, Emily, got married. After all, children bring people together. We were glad she’d found a decent man—James, steady, with a quiet strength but never cruel. They’re renting a flat in Manchester for now, while we chip in to help them save for their own place. It’s not easy, but every little bit counts. We’ve never had anything handed to us either.
At first, my relationship with James’s mother, Margaret, was civil enough. She lives in Liverpool, far from us, so most of our talks were over the phone, with the occasional visit. We spoke respectfully, as equals—everything seemed smooth. But as Christmas approached, something snapped. And not from our side.
A few days before the holidays, I rang Emily—just a warm, heartfelt chat.
“Darling, hello! Have you and James decided where to spend Christmas yet?”
“Oh, Mum, we haven’t settled on anything…”
“Why not come to us? The house is big, plenty of rooms—we love having guests! Your dad’s already strung up the lights outside. The tree’s up, the karaoke’s ready. And invite Margaret—your dad can fetch her, then take her back after. Why should she spend it alone?”
Emily said she’d talk to James and ring back. That evening, she told me they’d come—but his mother wouldn’t. Said she’d either be with friends or stay home. Apparently, it was her tradition—quiet Christmases, no fuss. It didn’t sit right with me. Was it really so hard to spend one holiday with family, to be part of something new? I’d only offered kindness. So I rang Margaret myself.
“Margaret, love, what’s this? Sitting alone—that’s no way to spend Christmas! Come to us, honestly, you’ll be a guest of honour. I’ll give you your own room, bring friends if you’d like. And we’ll have a proper roast, fireworks, carols—a proper, merry time!”
But she brushed me off, half-hearted.
“Don’t know. Last ten years, I’ve always been with mates. If they ask, I’ll go. If not—telly, blanket, and off to bed… At my age, noise isn’t the joy it used to be.”
I didn’t push. Thought, *Well, maybe she genuinely doesn’t fancy it.* But the next day, Emily called back. Her voice was frayed, near tears.
“Mum, she’s taken offence… Says we’ve betrayed her. What, does she think James is abandoning her? ‘He should be with her,’ she said. She wanted us all at hers—in that tiny two-bed flat. Can you imagine?”
I was stunned. So *we* were the villains for inviting them to celebrate in a home with space for everyone? We’ve got five spare rooms, a grand dining hall, a garden where we could light a fire, roast a joint, laugh till our sides hurt. And she’s got a cramped flat where, frankly, you’d struggle to fit more than two guests. Even if we’d all squeezed in—what then? Two hours of small talk, *EastEnders* on telly, then back to the cars? Christmas is about warmth, joy—coming together.
And then she said it—straight to their faces:
“If I’ve no family left, I’ll just go to my friends.”
Oh, and she made sure to add she wouldn’t be helping with the house deposit anymore. No money to spare, apparently.
My husband and I exchanged a look. He just scoffed.
“Good. We weren’t counting on it.”
Y’know, there’s always that sort—people who take offence at kindness, because to them, kindness looks like weakness. Any choice that isn’t theirs is a betrayal. Margaret turned out to be one of them. Walked off, nursed the grudge, slammed the door herself. If I said we weren’t sorry, I’d be lying. We’re sorry someone who could’ve been family chose bitterness instead. But as they say—we’ll live.
And the children? They’ll spend Christmas with those who love them. Not with those who try to strangle them with guilt.
