On Christmas Eve, I took my six-year-old son to my grandmother’s house. My mother opened

As we stood in the entryway, the tension was palpable, thick like the fog outside. My grandmother, normally the epitome of grace and patience, had a fire in her eyes that I hadn’t seen before. She turned her gaze to my mother, whose initial defiance wavered under the weight of my grandmother’s stare.

“You have forgotten what this season is about, Janet,” Grandma Lily said, her voice steady but unyielding. “Family, love, forgiveness. Not judgment or exclusion.”

My mother opened her mouth to protest, but Grandma Lily raised a hand to silence her, a gesture so commanding that my mother’s words died in her throat. My father shifted uncomfortably, while Mark just looked down, his expression a mix of confusion and guilt.