The next morning, my husband Mark returned from his shift at the fire station. When I told him what had happened, his expression hardened.
“They made room for twenty-eight people, but not Abby?”
I nodded.
He looked at me for several seconds.
“So what do we do?”
I already knew.
“I’m not making a scene. I’m taking action.”
My parents believed Christmas Eve had ended when they closed the door on my daughter.
They had no idea it was the night they lost the house they were living in.
Part 2: The Letter on Their Door
For the next two weeks, Mark, Abby, and I lived inside a strange pocket of calm. We had our own Christmas at home with Chinese takeout, old movies, and no obligation to pretend everything was fine, while my mother and sister filled my phone with cheerful messages asking when we planned to come over.
