Part 2

I stood in the garage holding a box of handmade ornaments until the cardboard bent under my fingers.

That night, I asked Ryan whether he actually wanted me at Christmas.

“Don’t be dramatic,” he said, watching football. “Just do your part.”

“My part?”

“The money, Claire. You know what I mean.”

I didn’t cry until I was alone in my car.

Then I did something I had never done before.

I called the caterer, the rental company, and the florist. I confirmed I had booked nothing for this year and that nobody had permission to charge my cards or use my signature.

The caterer sounded confused.

“But your husband said you were handling the balance.”

“Not this year,” I answered.

I also met with a lawyer. I brought her eleven years of receipts and a folder of messages Ryan had forgotten I saved.

Now, on Christmas Eve, my phone buzzed again.

“People are already arriving,” Ryan wrote. “Quit playing games.”

I typed six words.

“I’m not coming. I’m not paying.”

He called immediately.

“You selfish witch. Mom spent weeks planning this!”

“Then Mom can pay for it.”

“If you embarrass us, I’ll tell everyone exactly what kind of woman you are.”