The oven’s on. The bench is crowded. Someone’s late.
You’re counting minutes instead of faces.
Christmas is meant to feel generous.
But hosting can quietly turn into performance.
The perfect roast. The clean house. The right timing.
None of that is the point.
The stories come from burnt edges.
From plates on laps.
From conversations that wander because nothing else is urgent.
No one remembers how neat it was.
They remember how welcome they felt.
Presence beats polish.
Every time.