The Christmas lights blurred through my tears as I stared down at the glitter-covered card trembling between my hands.
Red and green sparkles spilled across my lap while the words seemed to burn into the paper.
Roses are red, violets are blue. We don’t want a sick grandma. Christmas isn’t for you.
Then the room erupted in laughter.
My son David laughed so hard he had to wipe his eyes.
His wife, Zuri, giggled beside him while her sister clapped like she had just heard the funniest joke of the year.
Even my grandchildren, Emma and Jake, laughed uncertainly.
But I noticed something in ten-year-old Emma’s face.
Confusion.
The kind children show when they know something is cruel even if they don’t yet understand why.
“Oh my God, Zuri,” David said between laughs. “Mom’s expression is priceless.”
I looked at my forty-two-year-old son and barely recognized him.
This was the boy I had raised mostly alone after his father left when David was twelve.
I had worked double shifts.
Helped pay for college.
Supported his failed business ideas.
And even helped him purchase the very house where I was now sitting as the family joke.
Zuri leaned against his chair, perfectly dressed and completely pleased with herself.
“It’s only a joke, Myrtle,” she said sweetly. “You know we love you.”
Then her expression changed.
“We just think Christmas might be easier if you spent it somewhere more appropriate for someone with your condition.”
My condition.
Six months earlier, I had told them I had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s.
I had expected concern.
Support.
Maybe fear.
Instead, my illness had slowly become a reason to treat me as though I were already incapable of living my own life.
“What do you mean by somewhere more appropriate?” I asked.
Zuri exchanged a glance with David.
“There are wonderful facilities,” she said. “Places where people like you can receive proper care.”
People like me.
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