All heads swung in my direction. My fiancé’s mother threw a hand to her mouth to stifle a shriek. I found Tom’s face and saw my own horror reflected back at me.

There was no getting away from it. I’d ruined Christmas. 

24 hours earlier

“A pavlova on Christmas Eve? Are you serious?” 

 Tom laughed at me. 

“Deadly. She’ll be in the kitchen right now laying the finishing touches.”

He flicked on the windscreen wipers just as a light snow started to fall over the sleepy village of Bourton-on-the-Water. We were en route to my soon-to-be in-laws, where we would stay until Boxing Day for our first Christmas as an engaged couple. And my first away from my family in Wales in 29 years. 

“We’ve had a pavlova every year for as long as I can remember.”

“I don’t think I tasted my first pavlova until I moved to England. Christmas Eve is all about the sausage rolls in our house.” 

Every year, in the days leading up to Christmas, my mother would hole up in the kitchen, immersing herself in flour, pastry and sausage meat. Finally emerging with enough sausage rolls to see us through to the end of January. We’d store them in the second freezer along with the obligatory two turkeys, because Christmas was a time for too much of everything. It was a time for going very determinedly over the top. Normal service would be strictly maintained right up until the streetlamps came on on the 24th of December. At which point my parents would fling open the cupboards and unleash gluttony. And we always started with several mountains of hot sausage rolls, bowls of crisps, and a side helping of pickled onions. 

“Oh yeah, I told my mum about the sausage rolls,” Tom said. “She’s got you some, I think.” 

“That’s really sweet, thank you.” Guilt tugged at me. My parents had been understanding when I’d told them I’d be spending Christmas with Tom’s family this year. And to be fair, it was about time. But that wasn’t the real source of my guilt. Truth be told, I’d been secretly looking forward to a chocolate-box Christmas. With my family, I was an anomaly, the one who went away to university and never truly came home. With Tom’s family, I was Laura, a clever grown-up with a Master's Degree and a Waitrose clubcard. 

Tom’s family had accepted me as one of their number the minute I met them. There’d never been a hint of judgement about my brash accent or the council estate I grew up on. I mean, they’d never seen it, but they didn’t need to. Hard as I tried to blend in, there were plenty of clues that cropped up to give me away. Like when Tom told me about the time he’d gone to school without his dinner money, and his mother had driven there to drop it off. I’d always had free school meals, and my mother worked at my school as a dinner lady, so I’d had no such problems.

The first time our parents met, I braced so hard I nearly shat myself. We’d gone for Sunday lunch at a rustic pub on the English side of the border. My dad baulked when they brought his fish and chips on a wooden board, then proceeded to complain about the portion sizes for the whole of the meal. Leaving a restaurant still hungry was up there with the worst things that could happen to someone in my family. When you ate out, you expected to come away well over the sated threshold, and safe in the knowledge that you’d got your money’s worth. I’ve never shaken this one, if I’m honest. Tom took me to a fine dining restaurant when we first started dating, and I hated every minute of it. I didn’t care whether he could afford it. It just seemed absurd to me to spend the cost of a small holiday on a series of delicate, if beautifully presented mouthfuls that didn’t fill you up. 

My mother nudged my father in the ribs to get him to shut up about the fish and chips, quietly whispering, We’ll get something on the way home. My father clapped back that they shouldn’t have to, especially at this price, and I nearly died.

The front door burst open while we were still crunching up the gravel drive. “Darlings!” 

“Hi Wendy,” I said as Tom was enveloped in a beige poncho. 

“Come in, come in. Dad’s just getting started on the mulled wine.”

We stepped into the warmth, with the spicy scent of wine stewing, and the melodious tones of Nat King Cole presiding. Their Laura Ashley home was scattered with tasteful twinkles and bursts of colour. The fire in the lounge was roaring, a few feet away from a Nordmann fir that was perfectly coordinated in smatterings of silver and gold. 

We always went full pine in my parents' house. But it wasn’t until I reached my teens that I realised people usually bought their trees, as opposed to “collecting” one from the woods on the edge of the estate. And my mother would let our collective creativity play full out when we decorated our tree. Colour coordination be damned. That’s not what Christmas was about. 

Tom’s father handed us each a glass of mulled wine, and Wendy placed two glasses on the mantlepiece next to a brass urn. 

“Merry Christmas, Mum and Dad,” she said, and we raised a glass to Tom’s deceased grandparents. I thought of my own grandmother, still living independently in a flat on the estate. Don’t you dare put me in a vase, she’s always said. And don’t bury me with your grandfather either. Sixty years with that old bastard was more than enough. When the time comes, we’ll scatter her to the four winds so she can roam the earth like the free spirit she was always meant to be. 

“Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. Laura, would you help me lay the table?” Wendy asked. Dinner? It hadn’t occurred to me that we’d be having a sit-down meal. I’d been expecting a free-for-all. Come to think of it, it was dark outside, the streetlamps were on, but when I looked around my soon-to-be-in-laws' living room, I saw no snacks. Just a bowl of nuts on the mantlepiece, and an unopened box of Thorntons chocolates underneath the coffee table. Where was the tin of Quality Street? The biscuits, the tinned ham, the mince pies nobody ate? I snuck a glance at Tom as if he might have some answers, but he just threw me a gormless smile. 

“Oh, I’ve got some exciting news!”  Wendy said as she laid a Spode dinner plate on top of a gold-coloured charger. “I spoke to Annette last week. She said she can get you in at the Abbey for the wedding.”

“The Abbey?”

“And they’ve just got their licence for the new arch, so you’ll have the option of holding the ceremony in the garden. Weather permitting.”

“Oh, erm, we weren’t planning on –”

“More wine?” Tom’s father shouted from the hallway.

“I’m good, thanks, David,” I shouted back.

“Oh! Glasses,” said Wendy, and she bolted out of the dining room in the direction of the kitchen. 

Wendy had been dead set on the Abbey since Tom and I got engaged. She and David married there, and it’s now the place to tie the knot if you are a certain sort of person. The sort of person who wears a Dry Robe and drives a Range Rover. But I’d had my heart set on a venue back in Wales. A little place by the river, not far from where I grew up. Far enough away that I wouldn’t have to worry about my friends seeing where I actually grew up, but close enough that my parents wouldn’t think I’d abandoned my origins. 

We sat down to dinner, and I filed the wedding venue away for future me to deal with. Wendy served up a delicious gammon, followed by the famous pavlova. After dinner, we all helped clear up before settling down in front of the TV. 

As the starting credits of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang rolled, I wondered whether there were to be any snacks in my near future. I wasn’t exactly hungry, but my stomach didn’t hurt yet, and everyone knows that Christmas Eve is for grazing until you wish you were dead. I gave Tom the side-eye in the hope that my thoughts would somehow transmit to him, and he’d go to the kitchen to crack open some biscuits. Once again, he just smiled back and kissed me on the head before re-settling his attention on the movie.

It wasn’t until an hour or so into Chitty Chitty Bang Bang that Tom’s father reached for the Thorntons. Hallelujah! It was a huge box. One of those family-sized ones. He unwrapped the cellophane with his eyes still on the TV, took a chocolate, then placed the box on the coffee table. Tom took a chocolate first, then Wendy. I wondered whether I should wait to be invited, but it didn’t happen. So, after about half a minute, I lunged forward and took two chocolates. An orange truffle and a chocolate-coated fudge. I lobbed the sorange truffle into the back of my mouth and swallowed without really tasting. Then I bit the fudge in half and savoured the rich, fluffy centre as the milk chocolate coating melted on my tongue. I popped the second half into my mouth and immediately reached for a third chocolate.

“Slow down, Nelly!” Tom’s father said as he picked up the giant box, replaced the lid and settled it on a side table. 

Tom laughed and pulled me in for a cuddle. At first, I was mortified, but I soon switched to rage. Who opens a box of chocolates and only eats one or two before replacing the lid? And on Christmas Eve, no less? Were these people sociopaths? 

“Oh! I forgot the sausage rolls,” Wendy said. Thank Christ. Wendy eased herself off the sofa and disappeared into the kitchen, returning moments later holding a bag of 50 frozen sausage rolls. “I hope these are the ones you like?”

My first thought was, are there going to be enough for all of us? But it was far, far worse than I could ever have imagined. Because when the cooked sausage rolls appeared 20 minutes later, Wendy carried them in on a saucer.

A saucer.

I counted the sausage rolls. Five. There were four of us, who the hell was the fifth one for? No doubt that one was just for show. Doomed to languish on the saucer for the rest of the evening because everyone would be too polite to take it. Right at that moment, my family would be gorging themselves while I was pondering the politics of a singular sausage roll. It was worse than having tapas with people you don’t know that well. 

That one sausage roll sat there for 15 minutes. Everyone else gave their attention to the movie while I kept one eye on the lonely snack. When Tom’s father picked it up and popped it into his mouth, I wasn’t sure I’d ever hated anyone so much.

When the movie finished, Tom went to get the rest of our bags from the car, and his parents went off to start their nighttime routines. Naturally, I took the opportunity to slide over to the tree to squeeze a few presents. Squeezing gifts was a serious sport in our house. Over the years, we’d wrapped our gifts in increasingly ludicrous shapes with the intention of causing as much confusion and discomfort as possible to those receiving them. Obvious gifts like slippers and selection boxes were cast aside early. But the challenge of guessing the big ones was a source of exquisite torture in the days leading up to Christmas. And not a millimetre of Sellotape was spared, sealing any gaps that would otherwise fall prey to prying fingers. 

I picked up a shiny blue parcel with my name on it. To Laura, Love Wendy & David xx. I pressed my fingers into the wrapping, delighting in the crackle of the paper.

“What are you doing?” Tom’s dad lunged toward me and swiped the gift from my hands. “That’s for tomorrow.”

Tom came back in carrying a bag of gifts from the car. 

“I caught this one sneaking about by the presents,” David said, nodding at me.

Tom laughed. “She does that.”

Hot shame spread up my chest and into my cheeks. I’d thought everyone did.

“You okay?” Tom asked me as we got into bed. “You seemed a bit quiet tonight.”

“Oh yeah, I’m fine.” I wasn’t sure how to put it. Your family are weird, and they do Christmas wrong?

He sat up in bed. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s just. Your family do Christmas Eve differently to mine.” 

“I know,” he laughed. “Our families are very different.” Whatever he meant by that, it stung. 

“What do you mean?”

“Well, when we have dinner at yours, your mum pours my gravy for me.”

“She does that when she’s dishing up.” My mother always put the gravy on everyone’s meals along with the rest of the food. “She’s always done it.”

“I know, I’m not criticising.” Then why did it feel like he was? “I just mean, your family are generally a bit more –” he paused to think of the word, “– rambunctious”. 

“Rambunctious?”

“Oh, come on, Laur.”

The first time Tom met my parents, my father announced that he could start relaxing whenever he liked because there were no airs and graces in this house. In fact, my father appeared to go out of his way to show Tom that he didn’t care what others thought of him. From then on, his usual brash self always got that little bit brasher when Tom was around. 

“Okay, my family might be a bit loud.” But at least they’re not boring.

“Sorry Laur, I didn’t mean to upset you. I just mean, yes, our families are different.”

He pulled me down under the duvet and kissed me. “I love them, though. They gave you to the world.” 

I smiled and kissed him back. Then I curled up next to him and tried to shake the feeling that Christmas was happening somewhere else without me. 

We woke the following morning to the smell of bacon wafting under the bedroom door, and David’s voice hurtling up the stairs.

 “Come on, you two. Breakfast’s almost ready.” 

“Breakfast?” I asked Tom.

“Yeah. You’ve got to start Christmas day with a full English,” he announced as he climbed into yesterday’s jeans. 

What fresh hell was this? A full English breakfast on Christmas Day? We were supposed to start with presents. Then float around drinking cups of tea all morning while our stomachs groaned in preparation for Christmas lunch. If you really needed to eat something, you could have a bit of toast and some Quality Street – but a full bloody English? 

I sent a quick text to my family WhatsApp group, Merry Christmas! Missing you all xx, before padding downstairs in my pyjamas and joining Tom in the kitchen with his parents.

“Merry Christmas!” Wendy sang at me. She was halfway through turning some sausages, while her husband piled French toast onto a plate. “Would you two mind carrying some of this into the dining room?” She gestured with a spatula to a row of tureens overflowing with bacon, scrambled eggs, plum tomatoes, hash browns, and black pudding. 

I sidled up to Tom as we laid the tureens out on the meticulous dining table. “Won’t this go cold while we open the presents?”

“We don’t open the presents ‘til later.” 

“What? How much later?”

“Sometime after Christmas dinner.”

Sometime after Christmas dinner? Before I could say anything more, his father followed us with the French toast and a tureen full of spitting hot sausages.

My phone pinged, and I broke polite protocol to pick it up at the dining table. “Sorry, that’s probably my lot.”

My family had sent me a group photo of them gathered around a mountain of discarded wrapping paper. Aside from my brother, who had been tasked with taking the selfie, each person in the photo was holding up a piece of treasure. My mother was holding what I guessed to be the Red Letter Day spa vouchers we’d clubbed together to get her. My father held up a Timberland jumper. My little sister was sitting next to her boyfriend, showing off a ring on her right hand with a rock to rival my engagement ring. I winced. I knew that ring likely cost way more than they could afford, but that seemed to be the way of my clan – breaking the bank to buy your loved ones that thing they’ve had their eye on all year, no matter the dent it made or the length of time you’d have to spend paying it off. Christmas meant going to figurative Disneyland for the day. Peeking through the wardrobe into Narnia and grabbing as much Turkish delight as you could get your hands on.  

“Pass the bacon, Tom.” His father nodded over at the pile next to Tom’s plate. “So, I hear we’ve got the Abbey for the wedding.”

I put the phone away.

“Yeah, mum told me,” Tom said, handing over the tureen.

I looked sideways at my fiancé. He’d known? 

“Well, I mean, it’s an option,” I said. Even though it wasn’t.

“Now, we know the Abbey is probably more than you were planning to spend,” David added. “But your mother and I have discussed it.” He looked over at Wendy, who was beaming from ear to ear. “And we’d like to pay.”

My jaw dropped. “Oh, that’s very kind but-”

“I won’t hear any objections.” His father waved a hand in my direction. “It’s done.” 

“Dad, that’s amazing,” Tom said.

Wendy raised a glass. “To the both of you.” 

Tom and his father joined in to clink glasses. 

“That’s really kind, but the thing is, we were thinking of having the wedding in Wales,” I said.

Wendy’s face fell. David looked confused. 

“But we’ve got so much family here, Laura. I don’t think they’ll be able to travel that far.” Wendy said. “the Abbey has wonderful accommodation attached. And if it helps, we’re happy to contribute to your parents’ room.”

“They can afford their own room, Wendy,” I said.

Silence descended on breakfast. I picked at a hash brown, seething and dumbfounded all at once. I tried to imagine my gran in the Abbey. Jesus wept, it didn’t bear thinking about.

Tom facilitated a swift change of subject, and we spent the rest of breakfast dissecting the internal politics down at the village hall. Apparently, there’d been some challenge from the committee about the upcoming am dram programme, and Majorie Green was up in arms over some raffle controversy; was it fair to allow the same person to win twice in the same evening? Meanwhile, I was questioning whether Tom had always been tied to his mother’s apron strings, and would she insist on naming our first child, too.

I pulled Tom into the downstairs toilet as we collectively cleared the breakfast plates.

“What are you doing?” He asked, balancing a mug in one hand and three stacked Spode pieces in the other. 

“You knew they’d booked the Abbey?”

“No, I –” A greasy fork slid off the stack and clattered to the floor. He set the mug down on the toilet seat and reached down to collect the errant fork. “No, I knew she’d been talking about it, but I didn’t know it was a done deal.”

“Well, apparently it is.” I folded my arms in the small space. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want to hurt their feelings. They’re both really excited about it.”

“It’s our wedding.” 

“I know, I know. We’ll figure something out. Can we just leave it for today, though?” The fork slid off again. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

I bent down to retrieve it. “Fine. But I am not getting married at the Abbey.”

We left the toilet and joined Wendy and David in the kitchen. 

I scraped the leftovers into the compost bin, and Tom started loading the plates into the dishwasher. David was busy peeling vegetables while Wendy basted the bird. I handed Tom the plates I’d finished scraping and looked around for something to do. 

“Wendy, do you want a hand with the turkey?” I asked.

David started laughing.

“What?”

“It’s a goose, darling,” Wendy said with a smile.

“You’ve never seen a goose before, Laura?” David asked.

Tom slid an arm around my waist. “Leave her alone, Dad.” 

“I just thought it was a turkey, I didn’t look that closely.” My cheeks burned. What kind of a person doesn’t get a turkey at Christmas? 

A message from my mother landed in the group chat.

How’s it going, Laur? What did you get? Xx

I replied, Not sure yet. We’re going to open the presents later xx

The presents were the main event in our house, but Tom’s family just didn’t seem that bothered. It was as though the gifts were just a nice-to-have, a little token to sweeten the day, as opposed to the thing you looked forward to the most. The day you finally got those shoes you could never afford to buy yourself, or the watch you’d been eyeing up for months. 

You’d start with the stockings, before moving on to the medium-sized presents under the tree. And finally, the big event: The Main Present. The thing you’d been leaving clues about all year round, and you knew you were getting, but there was still a chance that you might not, which made it all the more wonderfully excruciating. 

Perhaps if I’d been more prepared, I would have found it easier to adjust. If I’d known in advance that the pavlova would be the least of my worries, I would have tempered my expectations. But it felt like the horror was being unfolded on a need-to-know basis, and I was being strung along for someone else’s amusement. 

We sat through the King’s speech while weeks of bottled Christmas excitement fizzled. Then dinner was served on more Spode, and the conversation turned once more to the wedding.

“So, I was thinking about the colour scheme,” Wendy said.

Fuck no. “Erm,” I started. “We’ve already decided-” 

“I think blue and pink go beautifully together. Don’t you think so, Laura?”

“Well, actually-”

“Mum, Laura’s already decided on some colours.”

“Well, it’s not just Laura’s wedding.” She said it with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

This was something I’d never get used to. The way people with money danced around conflict, handing out barbs wrapped in candy floss. With my family, you’d never say something with a smile when you actually meant fuck off. We said what we meant, and we meant things times eleven. The first time Tom saw me argue with my brother, he thought we were about to have a punch-up. But within an hour, we were laughing over an old rerun of The Young Ones, and all was forgotten. 

I poured myself some wine, deciding it was the only way to get through the meal. I swallowed the first sip, and it tasted so sweet, like apricots and honey. 

“Oh, Tom.” Wendy’s singsong voice was really starting to grate. “Amber and Seb have asked if they can bring the children and their plus ones to the wedding. I told them that would be fine, I hope that’s okay.” 

“Mum, Will and Ed are in their twenties. And I’ve never even met their plus ones.”

“Yes, but you can squeeze them in, can’t you?” Wendy asked. 

“No. We only invited Seb and Amber out of politeness.”

I took another gulp of the wine, then topped up my glass. Fuck it, it’s Christmas.

“But they’re my cousins.” Wendy’s voice cracked like a child who’d just been told she couldn’t have an ice cream.

I’d never even heard of Seb and Amber until we started working on the guest list. They’re my mum’s cousins. No, I haven’t seen them in years. I took another gulp of the wine. Christ, it was delicious. I’d never tasted wine like it. 

“Why don’t we ask Annette if there’s space?” Tom’s father chimed in.

“It’s got nothing to do with Annette,” Tom said.

“But this is the only chance I’ll ever have to be mother of the groom. I want it to be perfect.” 

“Could we just leave it for today? Please?” Tom asked. 

Nobody spoke for a minute or so. We sat there picking at our food to the sound of classical music. What was wrong with a bit of Frosty the Snowman anyway? Why was I spending Christmas in a John Lewis advert? Meanwhile, my head was starting to get fuzzy. This wine was strong. 

“Cracker, anyone?” Wendy lifted the peace offering and held it out to the middle of the table. Tom pasted on a smile and reached for the other end. His dad followed suit and extended his cracker to me. Then we all cheered as crêpe paper hats, bad jokes, and miniature gifts exploded over the table. 

I lifted my glass and noticed I’d emptied another one. Christ, this stuff was going down like pop. I reached for the bottle.

“How much of that have you had?” Tom asked.

“A few. Why?” 

“That’s dessert wine,” Wendy said.

“Well, it’s gorgeous,” I replied.

“You’re supposed to sip it,” said Tom.

“Why?”

“It’s 20% alcohol.” 

Oh piss. That would explain why I could see two Toms. One of the Toms poured me some water from a jug in the centre of the table. 

“You’ve never had dessert wine before, Laura?” David asked.

“No, I haven’t, Dave. There’s not much of it knocking about on the estate.” 

“Well, I’ll just go and get dessert.” Wendy said, adding, “The pudding, I mean.”

Tom got up to help his mother, and I decided to use the break in proceedings to use the toilet. There was just one problem. In order to get to the downstairs toilet, you had to go past the lounge. So, what happened next, really, was to be expected. 

The fire in the lounge was roaring, the gentle spit and crackle of the flames beckoning me from the doorway. Last night’s mulled wine was still sitting next to the urn above the fireplace, looking wasteful. 

I tiptoed into the room and found my target, lying there all shiny and inviting right at the foot of the Nordmann fir. The muffled sounds of Tom conversing with his mother floated out of the kitchen, and the clattering of dishes in the dining room told me that David was occupied in there. I probably had about five minutes before I was discovered.

I padded over to the tree, knelt down, and flicked through the name tags until I found one with my name on it. An oblong-shaped parcel covered in gold wrapping. I squeezed it, freezing at the crackling sound lest I give away my location, but the clattering and the muffled voices remained where they were. I applied a little more pressure to the parcel. It was something soft on a hard surface. A book wrapped up with a scarf, perhaps? I ran my fingers along the tape and found a gap, just big enough for a finger to slide through. Rookie mistake. Clearly, this present had been wrapped by someone who hadn’t grown up around curious hands. I slipped my index finger inside and brushed soft fur. Any further and I’d tear the paper. 

“Laura!” 

I whipped my head up to see Tom standing in the doorway. I threw the parcel down, tearing it open in the process. I froze.

“What are you –, that’s not yours.”

“What?” 

I looked down at the now torn parcel, purple fur bulging out of the gap I’d just made.

“That’s not for you. It’s for one of my cousins. They’re coming tomorrow.”

“But.” I picked up the label. Oh shit. It was addressed to someone called Lorna. 

“Come on, get up before they notice.” Tom pushed the damaged parcel underneath some of its fellows, and I scrambled to get to my feet. But I was tipsy from the wine and disoriented by embarrassment. I lost my balance and instinctively grabbed the nearest thing to steady myself. The Nordmann fir. 

The next thing I knew, I was falling sideways, pulling the tree with me. I collided with the cream floor as the tree came crashing down next to me, scattering its needles all over the carpet. 

Then I saw it, and my stomach flipped into my throat. 

Lying there, spread across the carpet, were the ashes of Tom’s grandparents. Swiped off the mantlepiece by the top of the falling fir. 

Footsteps came down the hallway, and Wendy and David appeared next to a stricken Tom. Wendy stifled a scream with her hand. 

Holy shit, no.

Tom and David ran to help me up. Tom asked if I was okay, and I barely nodded in response. Then they lifted the tree back to its upright position, with David mumbling that they would deal with the spilt soil later on. Then we all turned our attention to Tom’s dead grandparents. The ashes were everywhere, stretching across the lounge floor like a firework of devastation. Strangely, the mulled wine had survived. 

This was it. The moment it all came crashing down. I’d never be welcome in this house again. Tom would realise I’m nowhere near refined enough for him. The Abbey would be cancelled. I’d only been able to keep my rough edges hidden for so long. I was a duckling among swans, and now it was time to go back to my own kind.

David put his hands on his hips. “Your parents never did like this carpet,” he said.

A sound escaped Wendy’s lips, something halfway between a moan and a squeak. She started shaking and shrieking, and it took me a moment to realise that she was laughing. 

David chuckled, too. “I suppose we could hoover them up? Then pour the carpet bag back into the urn?”

“I can’t have my parents spending eternity with the contents of a hoover bag,” Wendy said through guffaws.

“I’m not sure they really wanted to spend eternity on a mantlepiece either,” David said. 

“Are you okay, Laura?” Wendy asked, still chuckling.

“No. I just knocked over your Christmas tree and spilt your parents on the carpet.” 

Once the ashes were hoovered and stored away in a Tupperware box, ready for a later scattering, Wendy had a little cry. She also assured me that being in my very own Christmas catastrophe story meant that I was a proper member of the family now. And David let me in on the secret that the urn had always creeped him out. He’d never appreciated being watched by his in-laws on the daily, and it meant he’d always had to be on his best behaviour in his own lounge.

Emotions in the house were starting to simmer down, and Tom went off to get us a round of mulled wine. But by this point, I was missing home so badly I wanted to cry, so I took the opportunity to FaceTime my parents to say Merry Christmas.

“How’s your day been, Laur?” My father asked, holding the phone exactly two inches from his face while my mother tried to jostle her way into the shot.

“I got pissed on dessert wine and pulled the Christmas tree over.”

“Ah, all right. That the sort of thing they do over there, is it?”

I laughed. “Yeah, it’s been a riot.”

“Let me talk to ‘er, Mal.” My father handed the phone to my mother, and she proceeded to press her face even closer to the screen. “You ok, love?” 

“Yeah, Mam. Have you had a nice day?” 

“Oh, it’s been lush.” Then she shouted off-screen – “You’ll ‘ave to defrost some, they’re in the big freezer. Sorry love, your brother’s after more sausage rolls.” She raised her voice again, “The big freezer!” 

“Did you get everything you wanted?” 

“Oh yeah, and I loved the spa vouchers. We’ll ‘ave to book a date to go. Me, you, and your sister.”

“Yeah, that’ll be nice.” 

“I said, look in the big freezer, I’m on the phone!”

“Don’t worry, Mam, I’ll let you go. I’ll see you in a few days anyway.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” 

“You sure you’re okay, bach?” 

I nodded. 

“Alright then, bye love. Bye bye, ta-ra, ta-ra.” 

A light sadness settled in my chest. I’d thought I could always go home again. That even when I left for university, moved to England, and got engaged, nothing would change. But so much had changed. Truth be told, underneath all my frustration about the Christmas food and the presents was the sneaking suspicion that somewhere along the way, I’d lost the magic. My life was different now, and I liked it. But there had definitely been a leaving behind. Christmas was no longer a day in the upside-down world. And it wasn’t just Christmas. Would I have to spend forever with a foot in each camp? Trying to straddle two very different ways of being, and never fully feeling at home?

My phone pinged, and a photo flashed up of my brother holding up a mountain of sausage rolls. 

“Laur! We’re opening the presents.” Tom shouted from the lounge. I joined my soon-to-be in-laws, and we gathered around the lopsided tree to finally open our gifts.

Tom seemed pleased as punch with the driving experience I got for him, and David and Wendy said they were delighted with the his and hers robes. Once I’d finished opening some bits and pieces, we got to the main event. The main presents. 

Tom grinned like a Cheshire cat when he handed me the envelope. 

“What did you do?” I asked him as I tore open the flap of paper and pulled out the card. Inside, the message said, “I can’t wait to join our families.” 

He’d booked us a holiday, with both sets of parents.

Oh shit.

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