A few days later, Garrett called. He started with an apology, which was more than I expected.
“I know it was messed up, Wes. I’m sorry.”
“Did you know she was going to do that?”
A long pause. “Not exactly. She told me she was keeping the table to fourteen because of the new china set. She said she’d put you guys in the sunroom again and you were fine with it. I told her to add chairs, and she said there wasn’t room. So I dropped it.”
“There was room, Garrett. There’s always been room. She just doesn’t want us in it.”
He sighed, that long, tired sigh he does when he knows I’m right and doesn’t want to deal with it.
“What do you want me to do, Wes?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I’m done asking you to do things.”
That conversation bothered me for days. Not because of what Garrett said, but because of something it made me remember.
Susette had told us in November that Aunt Viv “wasn’t feeling up to” Christmas. And when I counted the place cards, there had been no card for Viv either.
Then it hit me. I hadn’t seen Viv at Christmas the year before, either. Or the year before that.
So I called her.
Aunt Viv is my mom’s younger sister. She’s sixty-two and has lived alone in a little Cape Cod in Pompton Lakes since my Uncle Ray died of a heart attack three years ago. She’s one of the kindest people I know. She used to come to every family event, every birthday, every graduation. Then she just stopped. When I asked my mom about it once, Mom said Viv was “going through something” and preferred to keep to herself.
Viv picked up on the second ring and sounded surprised to hear from me. We caught up for a while. The kids, the business, her garden. Then I asked her why she hadn’t come to Christmas.
She went quiet.
“Honey,” she said, “I wasn’t invited.”
I sat down on the edge of my bed.
“What do you mean?”
“Susette called me two years ago, the first Christmas after Ray died. She said she was keeping it small that year, just immediate family. She said she hoped I’d understand, with everything I was going through, that it might be too much for me.” Viv’s voice wavered. “I told her I’d love to come. That being with family was exactly what I needed. She said she’d think about it and call me back. She never did.”
“And last year?”
“She called and said the same thing. A small gathering. She said she’d talked to Marilyn, and your mother thought it would be best if I sat this one out.”
“Did you ask Mom about it?”
“I tried. Your mother said Susette handles Christmas now and she doesn’t get involved in the planning.”
My heart was pounding.
“Viv, Mom told me you didn’t want to come. Both years.”
Dead silence on the line.
Then she said, very softly, “That’s not true, Wesley. I wanted to come. I sat here alone both Christmases. I heated up a Stouffer’s lasagna and watched Miracle on 34th Street by myself.”
I had to take a breath.
This sweet woman, a widow in her first two years alone, had spent two Christmases by herself because Susette told her she wasn’t welcome. And then Susette told the rest of us that Viv had chosen not to come.
After I hung up, I did something I should have done years ago.
I started making phone calls.
Specialty: Quiet Comebacks & Personal Justice
David Reynolds focuses on stories where underestimated individuals regain control of their lives. His writing centers on measured decisions rather than dramatic outbursts — emphasizing preparation, patience, and the long game. His characters don’t shout; they act.