My husband, Samuel, had barely managed to slide his coat off his shoulders before the summons came.

“Samuel, the carving knife is dull. Come help your father,” Janice barked, not looking up.

Translation: Hannah doesn’t deserve backup during the initial assault.

So, it was just me, Fiona, and the firing squad. I sat down, willing my spine to turn into steel. Fiona slid into the chair next to me, her legs swinging rhythmically, her eyes bright with that resilient, heartbreaking optimism of childhood. She still believed that Christmas magic was a force strong enough to neutralize toxic family dynamics. I admired her hope, even as I mourned its inevitable death.