“We’re not spending Christmas with you.”
Sloan’s voice came through the speaker phone, crisp and sharp, as if she had rehearsed it in front of a mirror.
For a split second, my house went completely silent.
I wasn’t surprised. Exactly. The sheer bluntness of her words simply confirmed what I’d been ignoring for months.
I took a deep breath, resting my hand on the cool granite of my kitchen island.
“Cool,” I replied.
It was a short, clipped word, one I knew she wasn’t expecting.
“Well, then Christmas is canled.”
On the other end of the line, there was a strange sound, half gasp, half stumble. I could practically see her imaginary smile freeze.
Sloan wasn’t used to losing her footing.
She gathered herself quickly, but the tremor in her voice was already there.
“What do you mean cancelled? You can’t just—”
But of course I could.
I pressed the red button on my screen before she could even finish her sentence.
Silence flooded my kitchen again, but this time it wasn’t heavy or tense. It felt incredibly clean.
I set my phone aside and looked at the folders spread across my dining table: catering confirmations, rental receipts for the tables and chairs, invoices from the floral designers.
Every single document had my name on it, Diane Miller.
Every single deposit had come straight out of my bank account.
Without a second thought, I sat down and opened my laptop. The decision came to me as naturally as breathing.
I dialed the first number on the list, the catering company.
“Hi there. I need to cancel my service for the 25th,” I said, keeping my voice perfectly neutral.
The receptionist didn’t ask any questions. She simply processed the cancellation.
I did the exact same thing with the dishwear rental, the serving staff, and the bakery.