The Last Christmas He Ever Controlled

Not the polite kind.

The kind that presses on your ears.

Curtis laughed, sharp and dismissive. “Oh, here we go. The martyr speech. Right on schedule.”

I nodded slowly.

“Yes,” I said. “Right on schedule.”

Then I walked past him.

Not away.

Through.

I moved into the center of the room—the same place I had stood every Christmas for decades, smiling, serving, adjusting, apologizing.

But this time, I didn’t pick up a tray.