While my daughter was setting the table for Christmas, my sister recorded a video of her and…
While my daughter was setting the table for Christmas, my sister filmed her and posted the video on Facebook: « Look at this loser, young and good for nothing. » My parents laughed. I got angry and we left. The next day, my sister texted me: « Why can’t I withdraw $900 from your account? » I smiled and replied…
My name is Janette and I am 33 years old.
Christmas at my parents’ house had become unbearable over the years, not because of the usual tension or forced joy, but because of a pervasive, underlying cruelty that everyone mistook for family jokes. They weren’t jokes. My sister Rebecca criticized everyone, and my parents laughed just enough to maintain the peace, while someone else provided the entertainment.
Rebecca always needed a target. One year it was our cousin after her divorce. Another year it was our uncle because he had gained weight. The year before, it was me, and I did what I always did: I forced a smile, swallowed my emotions, and told myself it wasn’t worth making a scene.
This year, she chose my daughter.
My daughter is eight years old. She still believes in good things. She still thinks that family matters, and she loves Christmas in a way that breaks your heart if you think about it too long.
We had spent days preparing together. She had helped mash the potatoes, knead the dough for the rolls, and watch over the ham in the oven as if it were her own project. She wanted to wear her red sweater with small white buttons, the one she called her « fancy sweater. » And she was so proud to bring our meal to my parents’ house, as if we were contributing to something warm and authentic.
As soon as we walked in, Rebecca did what she always does. She scanned the room, like someone looking for trouble. She looked at the dishes we had brought and said, loud enough for everyone to hear, that I still cooked like a housewife from the 1950s, without the internet.
My mother laughed softly. My father didn’t look up from the football match. My daughter didn’t seem to notice, which, in part, made the situation worse.
Rebecca had a knack for making cruelty seem like a joke, as if reacting unreasonably was unacceptable. She asked my daughter if she’d been promoted to head maid this year. Then she leaned over and whispered something to my mother, and they both giggled as if they were sharing a little secret.
My daughter was busy folding napkins into triangles and lining them up carefully, adjusting the forks until they were straight. She didn’t say anything. She simply continued working, focused, proud, and silent.
Looking back, I can’t decide whether she didn’t understand what was happening or whether she understood too much and decided that the safest thing to do was to keep moving forward.
I noticed Rebecca’s phone before I even understood what she was doing. At first, I thought she was filming a family video like you see everywhere, to show the beautiful table, the meal or the children in their party outfits.
Then I heard her laugh, a high-pitched little laugh that never boded well. And I saw her point the camera at my daughter as if she’d found the perfect shot. She whispered something to my father, handed him the phone, and they both laughed.
That’s when I knew. Not suspected. Certain.
I approached and held out my hand.
Rebecca moved the phone back slightly, as if asking me to repeat my request. I didn’t hesitate. I took the phone.
On the screen, a video showed my daughter smoothing out napkins and arranging forks with intense concentration. The caption on Facebook made my hair stand on end for a second.
Look at this pathetic little girl. She’s young and a servant.
It had already been published. People had already liked it. The little thumbs-up were there, like proof that humiliation spreads quickly when presented as a joke.
I looked at Rebecca and told her to delete it.
She smiled mockingly.
Something old and ugly resurfaced inside me. Not just anger, but the memory of all the times I was told to shut up, to be mature, not to ruin the holidays, not to create discomfort.
I grabbed Rebecca by the hair and pulled her into the hallway. It wasn’t even a decision. It was instinctive. Years of holding back my words came flooding back and transformed into action.
Rebecca immediately started screaming, calling me crazy, dramatic, unstable, the same words she always used when she didn’t get what she wanted.
I didn’t reply. I just held her there until she deleted the message in front of me.
No one intervened. Neither my mother nor my father, not even when Rebecca screamed that I was attacking her. My parents remained motionless, frozen in that familiar cowardice, the kind that protects the aggressor by pretending nothing is happening.
I gave Rebecca back her phone and entered the living room as if I had crossed an irreversible line.
I told my daughter we were leaving.
« I didn’t shout. I didn’t cry. I didn’t explain myself in a way that would make her feel responsible. I simply said, ‘It’s over.' »
My daughter looked up at me, her hands still resting on the table, and she nodded.
That’s all. No protest, no confusion, just a discreet nod that gave me the impression she was waiting for me to say it.
We put on our coats and went outside. No one followed us. No one said goodbye. No one called my name as if to stop us. They let us go the way they always do, when it’s easier to lose someone than to confront Rebecca.
Back home, I made hot chocolate. My daughter, sitting at the kitchen table, was swinging her legs and saying she preferred to just be with me.
She said it with such simplicity that I almost lost my mind. As if it wasn’t a bombshell statement, but just an observation she had been accumulating for some time.
Later, while she slept, I sat alone in my kitchen and cried, my face buried in my hands. Not only because of what had happened, but also because of all those years I had let people like Rebecca put me down.
I wondered how many times my daughter had noticed it without saying a word. I wondered how many times she had seen me swallow my shame and concluded that this was love.
That night, something inside me died. Or perhaps something finally awoke.
The next morning, my phone vibrated before I had even finished my first cup of coffee.
It was a casual and annoyed text message from Rebecca, as if nothing important had happened the day before.
Why can’t I withdraw 900 from your account?
I stood rooted to the spot in front of the screen, then I laughed. Not that forced, polite laugh I’d perfected at family gatherings, but a real laugh, bright and surprised, as if my body had finally caught up with my mind.
For years, Rebecca had taken little things without asking, borrowed money, used my streaming accounts, and stayed a few nights that turned into weeks. I always said yes.
After my husband died, I think part of me was afraid of being alone, so I put up with bad company just to have someone near me. Rebecca knew this. She always knew where my weaknesses lay.
This time, I transcribed exactly what I was feeling.
« I’ve revoked your access. Don’t touch my accounts again. »
My phone rang almost immediately. I let it ring.
Then a voicemail arrived. Its tone was initially saccharine, as if to suggest a misunderstanding.
Then another call, then another text message.
Are you really doing this over some stupid story on Facebook?
I didn’t reply.
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