For eight straight years, Christmas lived at my house. Same decorations, same routines, same unspoken expectation that I would host—plan, cook, clean, and hold everything together. No one asked anymore. My parents and younger brother just showed up. Help was rare unless I requested it, and even then it felt like a favor. I told myself it made sense. I was single. No kids. Apparently that meant no “real responsibilities,” even though I ran every holiday like a full-time job.
