Every Christmas, my little crew—my husband Ethan, our daughter Maddie, our son Noah, and I—ditch the cold for a sunny island getaway. It’s our special tradition, just the four of us soaking up the sun before the holiday rush kicks in. This year, though, we came home to a shock. Our house was a disaster—eggs smeared across the walls, shells scattered on the porch, even my handmade wreath dripping with yolk. Ethan cursed under his breath, and the kids were wide-eyed, asking what happened. I had no clue, but I was mad. We’re the kind of neighbors who bake for newcomers and throw block parties—who’d target us? Then Ethan spotted a note tucked under the door: “This is for what you took from me before Christmas.” It sent my brain spinning. What had I taken? From who?
After tucking the kids in, Ethan and I dug into our security footage. There it was—a hooded figure chucking eggs like they meant it, not some teenage prank. I watched closer, and something clicked—the way they moved, that slouch. My heart sank. It was my mom. The next day, I stormed over to her place, barely holding it together. She greeted me with a big smile, but I cut to the chase: “Why’d you do it?” She tried to play dumb, but I wasn’t having it. Finally, she cracked. “It was Gloria,” she said, her voice sharp. Ethan’s mom had called her, bragging about joining our island trip, rubbing it in that she got time with the kids while my mom was left out. Except it was a lie—Gloria never came with us. My mom had felt so hurt, so invisible, she snapped and egged our house.
I was floored. Gloria had twisted the truth to wound her, and my mom lashed out because I’d let her drift away. Life with kids and work had swallowed me up, and I hadn’t seen how lonely she’d gotten. Her calls had grown quieter, her visits rarer, and I’d missed it. “You were wrong,” I told her, sitting close, “but I get why you hurt. I’m sorry I let you feel alone.” She broke down, promising to fix it. We agreed to clean up together—no more games, just us rebuilding. That afternoon, we scrubbed the house side by side, laughing through the stink, wiping away years of distance with every rag. By night, it felt new again. Over wine, Ethan and I pieced it together—Gloria’s lie had sparked this mess. He called her out, and I invited Mom for New Year’s. She showed up with dumplings and cake, dazzling the kids in a sparkly dress. At midnight, we toasted to fresh starts, and I felt whole.
Later, we met Gloria for coffee. She admitted she’d lied, lonely and jealous we hadn’t included her. “Why not visit my mom instead?” I asked. She had no answer, just regret. She promised to make it right with a tea party, and slowly, she did. Now she and my mom are tight, baking and playing mahjong every weekend. The egg mess faded, but it left me with a family stronger than ever—and a serious dislike for eggs.
