Carol of the Bells.

Every year, it's progressively more terrible. You get a little more like grandma. I get a little less like you. We don't talk about anything of substance, and I count down the hours until it's socially acceptable to leave.

Guilt, from the minute I walk in the door through the phone call when I return home. Then you ask why I don't visit more.

Awful. One more week until this season of obligations, both financial and emotional, is over for another eleven months. It can't come soon enough.