One downside of getting older was hosting the holidays. You'd seen your parents do it when your grandparents could no longer do it, and Martha had seen her parents do it when her grandparents could no longer do it. However, the time had come for the torch to pass to the both of you.

Truly, neither one of you had fully grasped what hosting Christmas would mean. First there was the grocery shopping. That was an epic quest all in itself. Then there was the cooking, which by the end had become an equally epic quest. Figuring out who was bringing what side or which dessert was also a pain in the neck. It seemed like everyone wanted to bring the same things, which, y'know, wasn't particularly helpful when everyone liked a variety of dishes. Then, when all that mess was sorted out, you turned to the actual mess of your shared home.

In reality, it really wasn't that bad. Sure, you had some clutter here and there, maybe a bit of dust, but it wasn't like there were mushrooms growing in the cupboards. Still, it still felt like you were cleaning up a condemned building with how thorough you had to be to appease your eagle-eyed mothers. By the time you were done, you felt like the house ought to have looked like shiny silver chrome.

When doomsday at last arrived, you found yourself at the fireplace fighting with the wood. You wanted to make the classic teepee shape, but every structure you made would not stay up for more than roughly ten seconds. Not good. When Martha breezed by in search of who-knew-what, she caught sight of you, sighed fondly, and knelt beside you.

"Having trouble there? You can just stack it, you know," she teased.

Scooting closer toward you to help, she dropped her smile.

"How are you holding up? I'm going to lose it if I have to redirect everyone from politics more than twice at dinner. I've already had to do it three times, and they've not even been here two hours!"