**Diary Entry – 23rd December**
I’ve always believed the deeper a family’s roots, the stronger the tree. Relatives, even the distant ones or those newly tied to us by marriage, are still people fate has brought together. My wife and I made an effort with everyone—our son-in-law’s parents, distant cousins—especially after our eldest, Emily, married. Children have a way of binding people. We were glad she’d found a good man—Oliver, steady but not harsh, with a quiet strength. They’re renting in Manchester for now, and we’ve been chipping in to help them save for a place. It’s not easy, but every bit counts. We’ve had to work for everything ourselves, too.
Oliver’s mother, Margaret, seemed decent at first. She lives up in Newcastle, so it was mostly phone calls and the odd visit. Polite, equal footing—nothing amiss. But something shifted as Christmas drew near. And not from our side.
A few days before the holidays, I rang Emily—just a warm, casual chat.
“Love, have you and Ollie decided where to spend Christmas yet?”
“Oh, Mum, we’re still sorting it…”
“Why not come here? Plenty of room, the guest suites are ready, your dad’s already hung the lights. Fireplace lit, karaoke set up. Invite Margaret too—your dad can fetch her. Why spend it alone?”
Emily said she’d talk to Oliver and ring back. That evening, she called to say they’d come—but his mother wouldn’t. Apparently, she either had friends or preferred a quiet night in. Said it was her tradition. It didn’t sit right with me. Tough to spare one evening for family? I rang Margaret myself.
“Margaret, really? Sat alone with the telly? Come down—we’ll treat you proper. Your own room, bring a friend if you like. Roast dinner, fireworks, good cheer. Homely, you know?”
But she brushed it off. “Ten years running, I’ve been with friends. If they ask, I’ll go. If not—blanket, telly, bed. Noise isn’t my thing these days.”
I dropped it. Maybe she meant it. But the next day, Emily rang near tears.
“Mum, she’s furious. Says we’ve betrayed her—that Oliver’s abandoning her. That *he* should’ve spent Christmas with *her* in her tiny flat. Can you believe it?”
I was stunned. So we’re villains for inviting them to a house with space to breathe? Five spare bedrooms, a dining hall, a garden for bonfires and games—while she’s got a cramped two-bed where half of us wouldn’t fit. Even if we squeezed in, what then? An hour of crackers and the Queen’s speech before scattering? Christmas is about warmth, laughter—*family*.
Then she said it outright to them:
“If I’ve no family left, I’ll go where I’m wanted.”
And oh—she’d no longer chip in for their house. “No spare funds,” apparently.
My wife and I exchanged a look. She just snorted.
“Fine by us. Never asked her to.”
Some folks take kindness as weakness. Any choice that isn’t *theirs* is a betrayal. Margaret’s that sort. Walked off, took offence, slammed the door. Can’t say I’m not sorry—we’d have welcomed her. But she chose bitterness.
As the saying goes—we’ll manage.
The kids will have Christmas with those who love them. Not with those who use guilt as a leash.
**Lesson:** You can’t force a place at the table. Some would rather dine alone.
