When Ellie’s family returns from their Christmas getaway, they’re shocked to find their house egged and a cryptic note left behind.
Determined to uncover the culprit, Ellie checks the security footage, only to discover the vandal is someone very close to her.
Confronting the person reveals years of hurt and manipulation that nearly tears their bond apart.
Can Ellie handle it?
Christmas has always been about family. That’s why, for the last four years, my husband Ethan, our seven-year-old daughter Maddie, our five-year-old son Noah, and I had made it a tradition to escape to the islands.
Just the four of us, basking in the sun, recharging before the whirlwind of holiday dinners and social obligations hit.
And this year was no different. Or so I thought.
When we pulled into our driveway after the trip, I froze.
Our house looked like a crime scene.
Raw eggs dripped from the walls in sticky streams, the porch was littered with broken shells, and even the holiday wreath I’d lovingly crafted was a splattered, smelly mess.
“What the hell?” Ethan muttered, stepping out of the car, Noah on his heels.
“Mom, what happened?” Maddie asked from the backseat.
“I don’t know, sweetheart,” I said, feeling a knot tighten in my chest.
Noah crouched beside the mess.
“Could a bird do this, Dad?” he asked.
I tried to keep calm for the kids, but inside, I was fuming.
Who would do this?
We were good neighbors — no, we were great neighbors!
I baked cookies for new families, helped organize block parties, and I never turned down a chance to lend a hand.
This wasn’t random vandalism. It was targeted. It had to be.
Then Ethan found the note.
It was stuffed under the doorframe, the edges crumpled and damp. He handed it to me.
This is for what you took from me before Christmas.
I stared at the words, my mind racing.
What had I taken? And from whom?
That night, after putting the kids to bed, Ethan and I went straight to the security cameras.
As we scrolled through the footage, my stomach churned.
The camera captured a hooded figure sneaking up our driveway, cartons of eggs in hand. Each throw was deliberate, as though they’d rehearsed the motion. This wasn’t a prank; it was a vendetta.
“This is insane,” Ethan said.
“Who even does this anymore? This is a drunken prank for rowdy teens. Eggs and toilet paper.”
Then, something about the figure made me freeze.
The way they tilted their head. The way their shoulders slumped between throws. My breath caught in my throat.
“No,” I whispered, shaking my head.
“It can’t be.”
But it was.
The hooded figure vandalizing our home was my mother.
The next morning, I left Ethan with the kids and drove to my mom’s house. My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly I thought I might snap it in two.
When I rang the bell, she opened the door with her usual warm smile.
“Ellie! What a surprise!”
“Why?” I blurted, skipping the pleasantries.
“Just explain why.”
Her smile faltered.
“Why what? Explain what?” she asked.
“Why would you do that to us? Don’t even try to hide it, Mom.
Come on!”
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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