One by one, replies came in. Polite, casual, and dismissive. “It’s at your place, so it makes sense that you handle the food.” “You’re just better at this stuff.” “We’ll help if you tell us what to do.”
None of it felt like help. It felt like avoidance wrapped in compliments.
I waited. No one offered to take over. No one suggested an alternative. The message was clear: if I wasn’t willing to do everything, then the tradition didn’t matter enough to them to adjust.
So I made a decision that surprised even me.
I canceled.
I explained calmly that I didn’t have the capacity to host or cook this year on my own. I didn’t accuse anyone or create drama. I simply said I was stepping back.
The silence that followed was louder than any argument.
Days passed. Then, without another word, I learned that my family had made new plans—plans that did not include me. They chose another location, another arrangement, and moved forward as if my absence was a minor inconvenience rather than a meaningful loss.
