Christmas was always the time for family. For the past five years,

my husband Alex, our eight-year-old son Liam, our six-year-old daughter Ava,

and I had established a beloved tradition: a tropical getaway to escape the

hustle and bustle of the holiday season. It was our way to recharge before

diving headfirst into the frenzy of family gatherings and obligations.

But this year, when we returned home, we were met with a shocking sight.

Our once pristine home looked like it had been under siege. Splatters of egg

yolk dripped from the walls, the porch was littered with shells, and my handmade wreath lay ruined—a soggy, sticky mess.

What in the world?” Alex muttered, stepping out of the car.

“Mom, what happened to the house?” Liam asked, his wide eyes filled with concern.

“I… I don’t know,” I managed, though my heart was racing.

A note, crumpled and damp, sat tucked under the front mat. Alex handed it to me. The words scrawled across it sent a chill down my spine:
“This is for the years you ignored me.”

That night, after we got the kids to bed, Alex and I reviewed the footage from our security cameras. My stomach dropped as the hooded figure appeared on the screen, lobbing eggs at our home with precise, almost rehearsed motions. As we studied the footage, I noticed something unsettlingly familiar about their movements. My chest tightened as recognition set in.

“No,” I whispered, shaking my head. “It can’t be.”

But it was. The vandal was my own father.