Dirty Christmas
At twenty-nine, I had flown in from Seattle after a brutal year: my long-term boyfriend had left me for his assistant, and my job as a graphic designer had turned into endless Zoom calls that left me isolated.
Mom insisted I come home for Christmas to recharge, and honestly, the thought of her famous roast and Dad's bad jokes was the only thing pulling me through. Zoe Harper, back in her flannel pajamas era, ready to pretend everything was fine.
The house smelled like pine and cinnamon as I stepped inside, arms full of gifts. Mom enveloped me in a hug, her apron dusted with flour. "Zoe, honey, you look exhausted. Come sit by the fire."