When Kinsley’s family returns from their Christmas getaway, they’re shocked to find their house covered in eggs and a mysterious note left behind. Determined to find the person responsible, Kinsley checks the security footage, only to learn the vandal is someone very close to her. Confronting them uncovers years of pain and manipulation that almost shatters their relationship. Can Kinsley handle the truth?
Christmas has always been about family for me. That’s why, for the past four years, my husband Preston, our seven-year-old daughter Esme, our five-year-old son Cohen, and I have made it our tradition to head to the islands.
Just the four of us, enjoying the sun and relaxing before the busy round of holiday gatherings begins.
This year was meant to be the same. At least, that’s what I thought.
When we pulled into the driveway after the trip, I froze.
The house looked wrecked.
Raw eggs ran down the walls in sticky lines, broken shells covered the porch, and even the wreath I’d carefully made was a ruined, smelly mess.
“What the heck?” Preston muttered, stepping out of the car with Cohen right behind him.
“Mom, what happened?” Esme asked from the back seat.
“I don’t know, honey,” I said, a tight knot forming in my stomach.
Cohen crouched down to look at the mess.
“Could birds do this, Dad?” he asked.
I tried to stay calm for the kids, but inside I was boiling.
Who would do something like this?
We’re good neighbors—actually, great ones. I bake cookies for new families, help plan block parties, and always offer a hand when someone needs it.
This wasn’t random. It felt aimed right at us.
Then Preston found the note, tucked under the doorframe, crumpled and wet. 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? From who?
That night, after getting the kids to bed, Preston and I checked the security cameras. My stomach turned as we watched.
The footage showed a hooded figure sneaking up the driveway, holding cartons of eggs. Each throw was careful and full of anger—like they’d planned it. This wasn’t a prank; it was personal.
“This is ridiculous,” Preston said. “Who even does this? It’s something rowdy teens pull—eggs and toilet paper.”
Then something about the figure made me stop cold. The way they tilted their head. The slump of their shoulders between throws. My breath caught.
“No,” I whispered. “It can’t be.”
But it was.
The person throwing eggs at our house was my mother.
The next morning, I left Preston with the kids and drove to Mom’s. My hands gripped the wheel so tight they ached.
When I rang the bell, she opened the door with her usual warm smile.
“Kinsley! What a nice surprise!”
“Why?” I asked right away. “Just tell me why.”
Her smile faded.
“Why what?” she said.
“Why would you do that to our house? Don’t deny it, Mom. I saw the video.”
She went pale, looking away, guilt all over her face.
“Come in,” she said quietly.
“I don’t want to sit, Mom. I want answers.”
“It was because of your mother-in-law,” she said finally, voice tight.
“What does Denise have to do with this?”
“She called me, Kinsley,” Mom said, anger creeping in. “Right before Christmas, bragging about how you and Preston took her on your island trip. How special and included she felt. Quality time with the grandkids. And me? Left alone in the cold.”
I stared, stunned.
“Mom,” I said softly. “We didn’t take Denise. She wasn’t with us at all.”
Her eyes widened.
“But… why would she say that?”
“To hurt you,” I said firmly. “To make you feel left out. To cause problems between us. Why would I choose her over my own mom?”
She sank onto the couch, hands covering her face.
“I was so angry, Kinsley. I felt forgotten, like I didn’t matter anymore. And I… lost it.”
Her words hurt because there was some truth there.
To be honest, I had let Mom fade into the background. I love her deeply, but with two young kids, work, and everything else, I hadn’t seen how lonely she’d become.
The signs were there—her quieter phone calls, fewer drop-ins with treats.
Life had pulled me away, and I hadn’t noticed the damage.
“Mom,” I said gently, sitting beside her. “What you did was wrong. But I understand why you were hurt. I’m sorry if I made you feel left out. Things have been crazy with work and the kids.”
Her face crumpled.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’ll pay for the cleaning. Whatever you need.”
“We’ll clean it together,” I said. “But first, we fix us. No more letting lies get between us. Okay?”
She nodded, relief clear. We hugged, and it felt like old barriers were finally falling.
That afternoon, Mom came over with soap and rags. We scrubbed eggs off the walls, porch, and windows side by side.
It was messy, smelly, tiring work, but with every streak we wiped away, years of distance seemed to vanish too.
By the end, the house felt whole again.
That evening, after grilled cheese for the kids and bedtime, Preston and I talked over wine.
“It was Denise who started it,” I said. “She called Mom and lied about coming with us—made it sound wonderful. Mom believed her and snapped.”
“You’re kidding,” Preston said, shaking his head. “Why would she do that?”
“No clue, but you need to talk to her. I’m focusing on Mom—she’s felt abandoned for years. This was her breaking point. Denise is your mom.”
“I’ll call her,” he said firmly. “She’ll explain.”
He went to call Denise while I phoned Mom.
“Come over for New Year’s, Mom? Just us at home—food, drinks, relaxing.”
A pause.
“You really mean it?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “It’s time.”
New Year’s Eve, Mom arrived with homemade dumplings, chocolate cake, and lamingtons for the kids. In a sparkly dress, she looked years younger.
Esme and Cohen ran to hug her legs. Preston handed her champagne and told a bad joke that made her laugh.
At midnight, fireworks outside, we toasted.
“To fresh starts,” Mom said softly.
Looking around—at the kids’ sleepy smiles, Preston’s arm around me, Mom glowing—I felt something shift.
A week later, Preston and I met Denise at a coffee shop.
“Mom, explain,” Preston said, stirring his coffee. “And be honest.”
“I lied to Kathleen because I was upset you didn’t invite us,” she admitted. “Holidays are hard as a widow… I felt lonely and lashed out.”
“Why not just spend time with her?” I asked. “You were both alone. You could’ve baked, watched movies, talked all night.”
“I wasn’t thinking straight,” she said, voice breaking. “I’d take it back if I could.”
Silence.
“Now what?” Preston asked.
“I’ll call Kathleen and fix it. Plan a tea party. We’ll make it right.”
“I hope so,” I said. “The kids can’t be pulled between grandmas. I won’t let that happen.”
“You shouldn’t,” she agreed. “I’ll make it better.”
In the end, we let the moms sort it out. Slowly, they did—now they play mahjong and bake together every weekend.
And honestly? I can’t stand eggs anymore.