It began innocently. A wreath here. A scented pinecone basket there. A twinkle light or twelve strung across the stairwell “just for ambiance.”

But slowly, the transformation took hold.

My Pinterest board bloated like a snowman on a salt shaker. I stopped saying “no” to glitter-based projects. I found myself whispering to rolls of ribbon at midnight.
🎙️ “You’ll be perfect for the banister garland.”

Suddenly, every surface became a potential holiday moment.
Bathroom mirror? Frosted and adorned.
Cat litter box corner? Flanked by miniature nutcrackers.
Garage? Lit like a runway for emotionally unstable reindeer.

I hosted a crafting night for “close friends.” Twelve people left covered in sap, feathers, and unresolved feelings. One woman cried when her snowflake pillow looked more like a weird fungus. I told her it was “rustic.” She didn’t speak to me again.

My husband gently suggested we skip the vintage sled centerpiece this year. I stared at him for six full minutes. He backed out of the room whispering apologies to the tinsel.

Even the kids stopped asking questions.
Jack just pointed at the 19th Hallmark movie of the week and said, “You’ve seen this one, Mom. Twice.”
James tried to eat a glue stick. I told him it was festive.

Then came the moment. The one that unraveled me.

I walked into my mom’s house, arms loaded with cinnamon sticks and six miniature ceramic villages ready for aggressive redecoration. I looked at the mantle.

Bare.

I gasped. “Where’s Santa’s setup? The plate, the note, the boot print soot trail?”

She sipped her tea calmly and said,

“Ashley, you’re the adult now. Santa’s dead and the elves unionized.”

The lights flickered. My jingle bell earrings trembled.

I ate three sugar cookies without chewing, ripped off my Christmas apron, and staggered into the night, weeping softly to a Mariah Carey echo on loop.