Christmas dinner was always my responsibility — the food, the family, and the peace. But last year, one dish on the table shattered it all. Accusations flew, tears were shed, and by the end of the night, I realized something important: I’m done apologizing for hurts that aren’t mine to fix.
Christmas Croquettes and Ghosts We Can’t Shake
The kitchen smelled like Christmas. Butter, chestnuts, cream, and just a hint of garlic. If you closed your eyes, you’d swear you were standing next to Grandma Alma’s stove, except you’d be wrong. Grandma Alma’s stove had a rickety clatter and a tendency to hiss like a feral cat whenever you lifted a pot. Mine just beeped.
I stood over the counter, rolling balls of mashed perfection between my hands, the warmth of the mixture pressing into my palms. Chestnut-Cream Croquettes. Our family’s golden holiday grail. My fingertips felt coated in nostalgia — and, okay, a little regret.
Every year since Mom and Dad died, I told myself I’d “scale it down this year.” And yet, here I was, rolling croquettes like my life depended on it.
My sisters were on their way. Friends too. This kitchen, small as it was, would soon be filled with noise and wet boot tracks, and I’d play the part of Holiday Host Extraordinaire. It’s what I did. What I’d always done.
I flipped the first batch in the oil, the sizzle loud and angry, and that’s when it hit me — Jonah.
Jonah used to be the first to spot the croquettes. Every year, without fail. He’d hover by the kitchen doorway, hands in his pockets, his grin lazy but sharp. “I was waiting all year for these!” he’d say like it was a personal secret we shared.
And I’d always answer, “You know I made them just for you!”
It was our bit. A silly, simple exchange that somehow made the whole season feel like home.
Not this year.
Not last year either.
Jonah died two winters ago. One wrong step on black ice, one bad fall, and just like that, he was gone.
I set the tongs down slower than I needed to, suddenly aware of the weight on my chest. My breath went shallow. I pressed a hand to my ribs like I could steady it. Just finish the croquettes, Dana. Keep moving.
The oil hissed louder than before, almost like it was scolding me.
Holiday Cheers… Until Tasha Sees the Croquettes
The front door burst open with a cold rush of air and shrieks of “Shut the door, you’re letting the heat out!” as my younger sister Marie stomped inside, her arms full of gifts. Her boyfriend, Tim, followed, shivering under a puffed-up jacket that looked like it doubled as a flotation device.
“Smells like Christmas in here,” Marie called, shedding her coat right onto the floor like a child.
“Don’t do that,” I muttered, grabbing it and tossing it toward the coat rack.
Her eyes locked onto the croquettes on the counter. Her grin widened. “There they are,” she said, nudging Tim with her elbow. “You know she made them just for you,” she teased.
“Don’t start,” I said, cracking a smile despite myself.
The door flew open again, this time with a full-on hurricane of noise. Tasha.
“HELLO, MERRY CHRISTMAS, WE’RE HERE, WE’RE FREEZING, WHERE’S THE WINE?” Tasha’s voice was louder than her faux-fur coat, which she flung into the air like she’d just scored the winning goal. Her fiancé, Malcolm, trailed behind her, juggling a bottle of wine and two bags of “stuff.”
“Don’t put that on the table,” I warned as Malcolm approached the dining table with his cargo. He blinked at me, confused, and backed away slowly, setting it on the counter instead.
Tasha’s eyes scanned the room, moving too fast, until they landed on them.
Her whole body stiffened. Her coat still hung midair behind her like a cartoon freeze-frame.
“Are you serious, Dana?” Her voice was sharp enough to cut glass. “You really made those this year?”
The room went still.
Everyone stopped what they were doing. Eyes darted between me and Tasha like they were waiting for someone to call action.
I straightened up. “Yeah, I did. It’s Christmas, Tash.”
Her face crumpled like she’d just been slapped. Tears sprang up faster than I could react. “How could you do that?” she choked, eyes wild with hurt. “You know Jonah loved those croquettes! You always said they were ‘just for him’ and now he’s gone and you still made them?!” Her voice cracked, loud and raw.
I opened my mouth but nothing came out.
Tasha turned on her heel and fled to the living room, sobbing like a toddler who’d dropped her ice cream. Her fiancé followed, glancing back at me with a look I’d seen before. Pity. Poor, heartless Dana.
“Dinner’s hot,” I said, grabbing the carving knife for the ham. “Y’all can eat now or reheat it later. Your choice.”
Everyone except Marie recoiled like I’d just declared a duel at high noon. My cousin, Alyssa even tilted her chair back a little, eyes locked on the knife like it might develop its own agenda. I almost laughed — almost. But I kept my face straight, slicing into the ham with the slow, steady precision of a woman who’d had just about enough.
Tears in the Living Room, Forks in the Dining Room
The table was quiet at first. Forks on plates. No one looked at me, but no one looked at Tasha either. Her sobbing floated in from the next room like distant thunder.
“These croquettes,” Alyssa said, her mouth half-full, “are perfect.“
I laughed, relief hitting me harder than it should have. “Don’t say that too loud or you’ll have her throwing pillows next.”
Marie snorted, ducking her head as Tim shot her a warning glance.
Alyssa leaned in, smirking. “She does this every year, you know. Always has to be The Moment.“
Tasha Returns, and She’s Ready for Her Close-Up
Dishes cleared. Napkins crumpled. People stretched and leaned back in their chairs, bellies full and eyes heavy.
That’s when she reappeared.
Tasha, face puffy and blotchy, stood in the doorway, framed like she’d been lit by a spotlight. Her eyes darted to the half-cleared table.
“You ate without me?” she gasped.
Everyone froze. Except me.
I stacked plates in my hands. “You know where the food is, Tasha.”
Her face twisted into something ugly. “So that’s it? Y’all sat here eating while I was—”
“Crying for 40 minutes? Yes, that’s exactly what happened.” I didn’t even look at her as I moved toward the kitchen.
The room broke into muffled “OHHHHH”s like a live studio audience.
The Walk of Pride, the Talk of the Town
People left in groups, grabbing coats and offering hugs that felt heavier than normal.
“If Tasha’s coming next year, don’t invite us,” Alyssa muttered as she slipped on her coat.
“Noted,” I said.
Tasha didn’t say goodbye. She walked out with her head high, looking like she’d won something.
Marie lingered by the door. “She’s gonna tell everyone you’re the villain, you know that, right?”
“She’s been practicing all night.” I smiled for the first time in hours.
Marie snorted so hard she had to turn away to cough.
Quiet Kitchens, Quieter Holidays
One year later, back in the kitchen. Oil sizzling. Croquettes lined up like soldiers on the counter. My hands moved on autopilot, rolling, breading, frying. Same motions. Same smells. Different peace.
Tasha’s campaign against me had been fierce. Cousins called to “check in” with the same script — “We know you didn’t mean to be hurtful, but maybe next year…”
But here’s the thing. I didn’t care. Not anymore.
I pulled a croquette from the oil, golden brown and perfect. Jonah’s grin flashed in my mind. “I’ve been waiting all year for these,” I whispered, smiling to myself.
“Hey,” Marie’s voice called from the doorway. “You know you made those just for me, right?”
I turned, smirking. “Don’t push it, siz.”
And for the first time in a long time, it really did feel like Christmas.
