Honey? Yeah? They’re coming. …I know. Merry fucking Christmas. Your mother called, she’s just around the bend, which means we’ve got ten minutes till the end. I hid the good whiskey in the shed, she’ll find it anyway, that woman smells the dead. Oh baby, please, like yours are any better, your mom sent me a twelve-page Christmas letter on how I cook, I clean, I raise the kids, she cc’d your ex, yeah, she actually did. Your dad already texted me his views on politics, my job, and both my shoes. I’m one glass in and faking all my cheer, remind me why we do this every year? Your brother’s bringing just a few guitars, your sister’s new boyfriend sells shit for the stars. I’ve smiled so hard my face forgot to feel, let’s lock the door and order something real. But no, we can’t, ’cause family is family, even when they drive us fucking crazy. Pour the wine, adjust the lie, it’s Christmas, babe, we’ll survive or die. The in-laws are coming, fa-la-la-la-la, hide the pills and smile like a star. The in-laws are coming, ho-ho-holy shit, pour another drink, this is it. We hate the same people, that’s why we fit, we’ll bitch in the bathroom every fifteen minutes. The in-laws are coming, jingle all the way, we’ll get through tonight and drink all Christmas Day. Your aunt just asked me when we’re having more, I said, “We’re practicing,” she didn’t like the joke. Your uncle cornered me about the Lord, I told him Satan’s nice, he nearly had a stroke. Your grandma pinched my ass beside the tree, your cousin asked if I was “eating freely.” I’m three champagnes from saying what I think, one more comment and I’ll push her in the sink. But no, we won’t, ’cause peace on Earth and all, even when we want to burn this hall. Grit the teeth, grip the glass, twenty hours and this too shall pass. The in-laws are coming, fa-la-la-la-la, hide the rage behind the bar. The in-laws are coming, ho-ho-holy night, we’ll tear up all the sheets when they’re out of sight. We love each other more when they’re around, nothing bonds like mutual battleground. The in-laws are coming, deck the halls with wine, we’ll survive this bullshit one more time. Baby, when your mother leaves… I’ll finally breathe… And when your father shuts his mouth… I might not burn the house… We’ll have the silence that we crave, just us, the dog, and what’s left of our brain. We grew up at tables just like this, learning love was mixed with hit-or-miss. Swore we’d never pass that down again, now we joke it off instead of naming pain. One day we’ll be “just dropping by” like that, kids rolling eyes beneath some Christmas tat. If we don’t break it while we’re still this young, our jokes will be the script on someone else’s tongue. Okay, game plan: I take the kitchen, you take the den. If anyone mentions my weight— I’ll spill wine on them. “Accident.” If your mom critiques my stuffing— I’ll say I made it. You’d do that for me? Baby, I’d commit light arson for you. That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said. The in-laws are coming, fa-la-la-la-fuck, we’re in this together, wish us luck. The in-laws are coming, ho-ho-here we go, smile for the photo, hide the woe. We chose each other, that’s the pact, we’re the break in the family act. The in-laws are coming, let the games begin, blood built the house, but we choose who gets in. They’re gone. …They’re gone. Same time next year? Unfortunately. I love you. I love you more. Merry fucking Christmas. .
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