Christmas with my dad's side of the family was always a big event. Food, gifts, and the traditional Jesus Birthday Cake. A real cake, with each part having a symbolic meaning. My grandma and now my mom has kept this tradition alive since I was two, and it always felt like a little slice of holiday magic.
The house was packed. Laughter bounced off the walls, kids tore into presents, and the air smelled like cinnamon and sugar. It was the kind of chaotic joy that made the season feel real. But there were too many of us to fit comfortably. So, when the night wound down, John and I were sent to stay at my aunt's father-in-law's house next door.
He led us to a small guest room, an add-on to the house. It was cozy... until we closed the door. Then it was freezing.
Like, "see your breath in the air" freezing.
Snow was already piled up outside, and it kept falling, a quiet, swirling blanket of white. We tried to make the best of it, curling up under the thin blankets, but the cold crept in, biting at our noses and fingers. I was shivering so hard I thought my teeth would crack.
And that's when John pulled me close.
"Come here," he whispered, pulling the blankets tighter around us. His arms wrapped around me, his body warm against mine. "For survival purposes only," he joked, quoting his favorite movie.
I laughed, snuggling closer, feeling his heartbeat against my back. For a moment, everything felt... right. Safe. I was warm in his arms, and we whispered and laughed, our breath mingling in the cold air. I felt the soft brush of his lips against my temple, the gentle squeeze of his hand. I felt loved. I felt happy.
We stayed like that all night, wrapped up in each other, chasing warmth. It felt like something from a romance novel. I wanted to believe it was a good omen. That this was the life we were going to have —laughter, warmth, love.
Morning came, and we walked back to my aunt's house for breakfast. The chaos picked up right where it left off. Laughter, scrambled eggs, syrupy pancakes. The whole family was there, and someone pulled out a stack of board games. We paired up as partners for a team game.
John and I were a team. We laughed. We teased each other. For a moment, it felt like we were the perfect couple, in sync and having fun.
And then we lost.
I laughed, shrugging it off. "Well, we tried!"
But as everyone else laughed and moved on, John leaned in close to my ear. His voice was a low, cold whisper. "You're a disappointment."
Not, "We lost." Not, "I'm disappointed." Not even "We could've done better."
No. I was a disappointment.
I felt the warmth of the night before drain out of me. I tried to shake it off, tried to tell myself he was joking, tried to remind myself of the way he'd held me all night. But the words stuck like ice in my chest.
Because it wasn't a joke. His tone wasn't teasing. It was sharp, almost hateful. A whisper just for me, a knife hidden behind a smile.
And as I sat there, pretending to laugh with everyone else, I felt the chill of that guest room again.
Except this time, there was no warmth waiting for me.
My sister noticed. Because she always noticed. I hadn't said anything, but she saw the look on my face, saw the way I'd gone quiet. She pulled me aside, and I told her, hesitant, whispering, embarrassed, that John had called me a disappointment.
Her eyes flashed with anger, and before I could stop her, she turned to him.
"Did you call her a disappointment?" she demanded.
John's expression didn't even flicker. "No. That's not what I said. I said I was disappointed. She must have misunderstood."
But I knew what I heard. I knew his voice, that cold, cutting whisper meant just for me.
My sister wasn't having it. "I saw what you said," she fired back. "I saw your face. Don't lie."
And there it was —truth like a spotlight.
Narcissists don't like the truth. They don't accept it. They don't admit it. They fight it, twist it, warp it into something they can use against you.
John's charm shattered in an instant. He got rude, his voice sharp, his words barbed. He turned on my sister, lashing out with anger disguised as defense. "You're being dramatic. You didn't hear anything. Stay out of our relationship."
But she didn't back down. And neither did her boyfriend, my future brother-in-law, Rim.
"You don't talk to her like that," Rim said, his voice calm but solid. A wall John's anger couldn't shake.
And that's the thing about narcissists. They don't pick fights they can't win.
John's rage didn't disappear. It just shifted. His smile returned, his voice softened, and he tried to laugh it off. "Misunderstanding. That's all it is. Just a game."
But I saw the tension in his jaw, the way his hands curled into fists when he thought no one was looking.
The rest of the day was awkward at best. I laughed when I was supposed to, tried to act normal, but the warmth from the night before was gone. I felt cold again.
And the moment we got in the car, the mask slipped.
The two-hour drive stretched into eternity. For the first hour, he was furious. His voice was a sharp, relentless hammer, beating against me.
"You should've defended me!"
"You always take her side!"
"I didn't say that! You know I didn't say that!"
"She's lying! You should've told her off!"
I tried to explain. I tried to tell him that I hadn't misunderstood, that I knew what I heard. But that only made it worse. His voice got louder, his words faster, a storm battering against me.
But then I made the mistake of saying, "Please stop yelling."
Everything went quiet.
Silent treatment.
An entire hour of icy, smothering silence. He didn't look at me. Didn't speak to me. His jaw was clenched so tightly I could see the muscle twitching. My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it would bruise my ribs.
I felt like a child again. Trapped. Small. Terrified of the silence. Desperate to fix it.
I whispered, "I'm sorry."
No response.
"I didn't mean to upset you."
Nothing.
And that was the thing with John. Silence was a weapon. A prison. A punishment. Because nothing was scarier than not knowing when he would speak again, or what he would say when he did.
When we finally got home, I walked in the door, feeling like I was stepping off a cliff. He went straight to the bedroom without a word. I stayed in the living room, staring at the wall, my mind a blur of fear and shame.
I told myself I should be mad. I told myself this was wrong. But the words in my head felt weak, drowned out by the crushing need to make him happy again.
And that was the cruelest trick of all. Even when he was the one who hurt me, I was the one desperate to make it right.
I told myself it was just a bad day. A misunderstanding. He was just stressed. It would be better tomorrow.
But it wouldn't.
It never was.