My Husband Invited His Ex-Wife and Kids to Spend Christmas with Us—So I Packed My Bags and Spent the Holiday at My Best Friend’s House

You cannot be serious, Mark. Tell me youre joking, or that the taps running too loud for my ears to function.

Helen snapped off the water, wiped her hands on a tea towel, and faced her husband with a look designed to curdle milk. The kitchen was thick with the scent of boiling vegetables, freshly chopped dill, and satsumas the festive air nearly tangible. Christmas Eve was only six hours away. Ingredients for potato salad towered on the worktop, a duck with Bramley apples was roasting in the oven, and a shimmering aspicher prideset in the fridge after a sleepless night.

Mark lingered awkwardly in the doorway, fiddling with the top button of his well-loved shirta dead giveaway he knew this was madness, but was ready to brazen it out nonetheless.

Helen, please, dont start, he wheedled, looking as hopeless as a dog at bath time. Clares pipes have burst, well, not burst exactly, but theres no water. None! And no heating. Can you imagine being stranded with the kids in a freezing flat on Christmas Eve? I couldnt say no. Theyre my children. What was I supposed to do?

The kids, yes. Theyre yours, Helen replied, striving for calm while her insides staged a protest. But Clare? Is she your child too? Why isnt she off to her mothers or a friends? Or, wild notion, staying in a hotel? Frankly, those maintenance payments of yours would cover a suite at The Ritz.

Her mothers at a spa, friends are scattered, Mark muttered quickly, eyes darting anywhere but Helens face. Andwell, its the family season, isnt it? The boys would love to see their dad. Well just have dinner, watch the fireworks. Theres space for everyone.

Helen surveyed the kitchen. Yes, technically the flat was generous, but this was their havenhers and Marks. Shed laboured a week to clean every crevice, decorate the tree, match the napkins to the curtains, and splurged on that absurdly expensive aftershave Mark had been sighing over for months. Shed pictured this evening like an ad: candles, gentle fairy lights, soft music, just them. Their first Christmas at home together as a married couple, with no one else invited or interrupting. Now, the idyllic tableau was crashing down like a poorly built Jenga tower.

We had an agreement, she reminded him quietly. This would be our celebration. I dont mind your sons, you know I love having them on the weekends. But inviting your ex-wife to share our table? Do you not see how strange that is?

Youre overreacting, Mark blustered, summoning a confidence that looked more than a bit threadbare. Were all adults, Clares not a monster. Shes just the kids mum. Dont be selfish, Helen. This is Christmas. Theyll be here in an hour.

He spun and left, presumably before Helen could launch a saucepan his way. She stayed put, gripping the worktop for moral support. The duck was making merry noises in the oven, but any hint of appetite shed had had vanished. Dont be selfish. That bit stung, finding the bruised spot where all her years of bending over backwards went. Three years shed bent: tidy home, open doors for Marks boys, polite tolerance to Clares calls at all hoursfix the tap, or could Mark possibly pop to the vet for her cat? All that effort, and this was her reward.

She chopped potatoes with clinical precision, wrestling her frustration. Maybe it would be fine? Maybe Clare would behave like a normal person? Christmas miracles, reconciliationanything was possible, right?

Miracles, alas, were in short supply. The bell rang fifty minutes later. Helen barely squeezed into her dress and dabbed on some mascara before Mark, positively beaming, rushed to answer.

The invasion was immediate. Tim and Charlie, ten and seven respectively, stormed in with the force of a minor natural disaster, leaving a Hansel-and-Gretel trail of mud. And then Clare herselflike an icebreaker sailing through the Arctic, in a lurid scarlet dress threatening to plunge at the neckline, bags in hand, her perfume sweeping through the hallway like a dense pink fog, overpowering even the citrus.

At last! she shrilled, giving her fur coat a shake so the hall floor resembled an Alpine path. Absolute gridlock, I had to bully the cabbie into using shortcuts. Mark, carry thesegifts for the boys, proper champagnenone of your bargain bin bubbly, darling.

Helen plastered on a polite smile and stepped into the hallway.

Good evening, Clare. Boys, hello.

Clares gaze swept over Helen, snagging on her understated dress before she tossed out a perfunctory, Evening, Helen. Goodness, its stuffy in here. Open a window, will you? And where are my slippers, Mark? The pink ones I left last time, after I picked up the child support.

Coming, Clare, just a minute. Mark frantically rummaged through the shoe rack.

Clare, darling. She had personal slippers in this flat? And Mark knew their precise location? Helen felt something coil tightly inside.

The guests made their way in. The boys commandeered the TV and began bouncing on the brand new, pale sofa Helen had babied for weeks.

Tim, Charlie, gently please, she implored.

Oh, let them burn off energy. Theyre only children! Clare dismissed, flopping into a chair. Mark, fetch me a glass of water, Im parched.

The next hour became the Clare Show. She critiqued the tree (Such dull baubles, Helen. In my day, decorations meant fun!), the table (Are we at Buckingham Palace with this many forks?), barked at the boys, then cooed over them a moment later. Mark orbited around her, a loyal spaniel: fetching cushions, adjusting the telly, doling out chargers. He barely looked at Helen, clearly hoping to dodge any and all eye contact.

Helen kept her head down, laying the table. Plates, glassesshe could have been staff at Downton Abbey. Then Clare called out, Helen, this potato saladdid you use ham? Good lord, thats so last century. Mark likes it with beef. Surely you knew that? We always made it with beef.

Marks been devouring my potato salad for years, Helen replied from the kitchen, deliberately thumping the salad bowl on the tray.

Oh, hes just polite, Clare laughed. Poor Mark, choking it down.

Mark, eavesdropping in the doorway, gave a feeble grin and said nothing in defensethe second warning buoy on a hazardous shoreline.

The third came with the arrival of the duck. Helen carried it in, golden and glistening, a culinary triumph.

Help yourselvesduck with Bramleys and prunes.

The boys darted over, only to recoil theatrically.

Ew, its burnt! declared Charlie. I want pizza, dad.

Its caramelised, not burnt, Helen clarified, trying to smile.

Children dont eat that sort of thing, Clare chimed in, prodding a drumstick like it was a lab experiment. All that fatand prunes, who does that? Mark, order pizza for the boys. And for me, just in case. Ducks hard on my stomach.

Mark shot Helen an apologetic look.

Helen, maybe shes right? Lets get the children a treat. Ill justwont take long.

Youre joking? Helens voice wobbled. I spent four hours on that. A whole days marinating.

Oh, dont take it personally. Mark tried to squeeze her shoulder, but she shrugged away. People just like different things. Well eat bothmakes it more of a feast!

He was already scrolling through his phone, cheerily consulting Clare: Mushrooms or pepperoni, love?

Helen collapsed onto a chair. This was surreal. Her flat, her kitchen, her partyshe might as well have been a ghost at her own wake. Her husband and his ex now apparently co-managing both menu and memories.

As if on cue, Clare popped another cork and reminisced: Mark, do you remember Christmas 2015 at the lake? You dressed as Santa, then your beard fell off! I nearly wet myself laughing.

Oh, that! Mark actually chuckled. And you as the Snow Maiden, losing your heel in a snowdrift.

They plunged into shared stories: first seaside holiday, first car, the boys first steps. They laughed, reminisced, sparkly-eyedinhabiting a world where Helen had never existed. She sat at her beautifully laid table, invisible, pushed to the periphery of someone elses history.

The boys rampaged until one sent a wine glass flying. Red liquid oozed across the white tablecloth, a spreading wound.

Oh, well done! Clare said. Mark, a bit of help? Helen, you got any salt? Might not budge, but its only a cheap cloth, never mind.

Helen stood, ears ringing as the hilarity from the TV blared on. Mark was busy with salt, still following every order Clare barked, never once glancing at Helen. He seemed totally absorbed in saving Christmas for what was now, unmistakably, his previous family.

That was it. Her part: provide food, hide in the background, endure mild humiliation. No thanks.

She exited silently. Nobody noticed as she passed by the living room: Clare enthroned and monologuing, Mark guffawing dutifully.

Helen tiptoed into the bedroom. In here, it was serene, the yellow streetlights painting bars on the duvet. She pulled a gym bag from under the bed. For all her upset, Helen realised shed never been more clear-headed. Jeans, jumper, pants, make-up bag, phone charger. Passport. She slipped off the dress, threw on boots, glanced at the mirror. The reflection showed a woman tired, but icy-eyed with resolve.

Just as she stepped out, the buzzer wentthe pizza was here.

Pizza! Yes! the boys howled.

Mark, pay the man, Ive nothing smaller! Clare commanded.

Helen strolled past the living room. Mark stood with his back to her, doling out notes from his wallet to the pizza guy. As he turned, boxes in hand, she quietly slipped out the door, shut it behind her, and listened to the lock click over the general din. Only in the lift did she exhale.

Big, lazy flakes were tumbling down in the dark. The whole city was in end-of-year party mode: the odd firework, stray laughter echoing down the street. Helen rang her best friend.

Sarah? Are you up?

Are you mad? Its ten on Christmas Eve! Johns already got the fizz out. Whats happened? You sound haunted.

Ive left Mark. Can I come to yours?

Oh, lord. Of course! John, fetch another wine glass, Helens coming. Where are you? Ill book you an Uber!

Forty minutes later, Helen was in Sarahs cosy kitchen, hands clasped round a steaming mug of tea. The flat smelt of ginger and genuine comfort. John tactfully vanished to the living room, to help the TV find the Christmas channel, leaving the kitchen to the girls.

Well? Spill it, Sarah urged, pouring more tea and adding a slice of lemon. Whats that muppet done now?

Helen let it all pour out, from the dubious DIY at Clares, to the underappreciated salad, the ex-wifes endless monologues, and the duck-drama.

Its not just that they turned up, Sarah, she said, warming her hands on the cup. Its him. He justserved everyone but me. I felt like the maid while they relived the glory days. Am I supposed to compete with ghosts?

Sarah shook her head. Classic nice guy syndrome. Wants to keep everybody happy, doesnt care who he tramples doing it. If youd carried on, hed have thought its fine for you to take all the stick. Good for youhe needed a shock.

Helens phone, neglected on the table, eventually vibrated. Only after an hour did the search party apparently notice her absence.

Mark was calling. Helen ignored it.

He tried again. Still no answer.

Then the texts dribbled in:

Helen, where are you? We cant find you.

Did you nip to the shops? The pizzas going cold.

Helen, answer. This isnt funny. Clares asking where the hostess is.

Have you actually LEFT? Helen, this is childish. Come back, please! Clares getting awkward.

Helen snorted at the last. Awkward for Clare, not his own wife whod just scarpered.

Dont reply, Sarah advised. Let him stew. Let him pour the drinks and sweep up crumbs with his darling ex.

Helen switched off her phone.

That Christmas Eve, she didnt bother with wishes or making up resolutions. She just drank prosecco with Sarah and John, watched The Vicar of Dibley Christmas special, and felt a peculiar lightnessas if shed finally shrugged off a backpack weighted with three Christmases worth of resentment.

Come Christmas morning, Helen woke to golden sunlight and the scent of coffee. When she braved her phone, it displayed fifty missed calls, twenty increasingly frantic or pathetic messages.

The boys broke your favourite vase. Sorry.

Clare had a strop about the sofa, says its too firm.

Theyve gone. The flats wrecked. I dont know where to start.

Helen, darling, Im an idiot. Please, call me.

By noon, there was a ring at Sarahs door. Mark stood, looking like hed survived The Blitz. Hair wild, crumpled oxford shirt, a wine stain blooming over one pocket. He clutched a monster bouquet of roses, obviously bought at the only shop open, for a kings ransom.

Sarah blocked the hallway.

Oh, look, if it isnt Captain Christmas. What do you want?

Sarah, please, I just want to talk to Helen. I know shes here. I need to see her.

Helen came out. Oddly, she didnt feel angry, or pleased to see him so abject. Just weary.

Helen! Mark stepped forward, wilted roses shivering in his hands. Im so sorry. Soon as you went, it was chaos. Clare barked orders, the boys went feral. They destroyed the tree. Clare told me I was a useless father and Id ruined Christmas. We rowed, I sent them home in a taxi at three in the morning. You were rightabout everything. You are my family. You. I need you. Please come home. Its allwell, almostall tidy now.

Helen eyed the flowers, petals dropping onto her slippers.

Its not just that you hurt me, Mark. You put me at the bottom of the pile. You let someone else rule our home and slate me. That doesnt just vanish with an apology.

It never will happen again, I promise. Ill block Clare everywhere. Only about the children, and never in our home. No more late-night calls. Ill change, youll see.

Helen paused. She saw he meant every word, desperate, terrified even. But could she unfeel that gaping loneliness at her own table?

Im not coming back today, she said eventually. I need time. A few more days here. You go home. And think. Not about how to win me back, but how you let this happen, how her feelings matter more than mine.

Ill wait. As long as it takes. I love you, Helen. I do.

He arranged the roses on the table and retreated.

Helen went into the kitchen. Sarah was already pouring more tea.

Well? Will you forgive him? she asked.

I dont know, Sarah. Maybe. One day. Hes not a bad man, just completely muddled. If I do come back, things have to change. I wont let myself be parked like a spare chair. Not ever.

She gazed out the window at the white world, fresh and unmarreda blank page. Her story, from now on, would be written by her hand, not dictated by ghosts of Christmases past.