My parents always treated me like the family maid.
The day before Christmas, my mother muttered and said, “Your sister’s friends will be celebrating Christmas here just twenty-five people.” Her tone made it sound like a small favor, though I knew it meant hours of cooking, cleaning, and serving. I simply smiled. That night, instead of preparing a feast, I booked a flight to Florida leaving the grand party with no host at all.
Christmas used to smell like pine and cinnamon. That year, it smelled like exhaustion.
My name is Emily Carter, and at twenty-seven, I finally understood that in my parents’ home, I wasn’t a daughter and I was unpaid help.
Two weeks before the holiday, my mother stood in the kitchen doorway, her arms crossed and voice sharp.
“Julia’s friends are coming here for Christmas just twenty-five people. You’ll cook, decorate, and serve. You’re good at that, …
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