Came home for the holidays, but my mom opened the door and said, “You weren’t invited — this is for family only.” I turned around without a word; minutes later, my sister texted, “Don’t take it personally — you know how you are.” I smiled, froze the joint account, canceled the utility payments, and cut off every card; by morning, my voicemail was full — and the group chat was on fire.

He didn’t even flinch when I told him they had passwords to some of my streaming services, too.

Just chuckled and said, “Let them miss an episode of The Crown.”

That night, I drove by the house again.

I didn’t stop, just slowed down enough to catch a glimpse.

The windows were dark, Christmas lights still up, but half of them were out.

A fitting metaphor, honestly.

I imagine the scene inside.

Mom probably pacing with a cordless phone. Dad flipping through mail. Melanie complaining about how she couldn’t even post her holiday outfit without Wi-Fi.

I felt detached.

Not angry, not bitter, just tired.

Tired in a way that doesn’t go away with sleep.

And then, right on Q, the group chat exploded.

Melanie texted, “So, I guess you think you’re teaching us a lesson.”

Dad texted, “Grow up, Aaron. You’re punishing your mother for something she didn’t even say.”