Every year, my husband Greg insists on hosting Christmas dinner for his family, treating the event like a royal decree rather than a collaborative effort. He expects me to handle everything—planning, shopping, cooking—while he sits back and takes the credit. This year, though, Greg outdid himself, reducing all the work, care, and effort that go into hosting to a single, dismissive gesture.
It started last week, as we stood in the kitchen discussing—or more accurately, me attempting to discuss—the plans for Christmas dinner. Greg, half-listening while scrolling on his phone, seemed utterly uninterested in the logistics.
“We need to figure out the menu soon,” I said, trying to make eye contact. “Your family usually expects a full spread, and I want to ensure we have everything in time.”
