'I am a bad mother.' Every Christmas, this is what I think

Host: The snow fell softly outside the window, a thin veil of white covering the quiet suburban street. Inside, the café was warm, its lights casting a golden hue on the frosted glass. Steam curled from cups of coffee, mingling with the faint scent of cinnamon and roasted beans. Christmas songs hummed from a distant speaker, slow and wistful.

Jack sat by the window, his grey eyes fixed on the blurred silhouettes outside. He looked tired, his coat half-open, the collar damp from the snow. Across from him sat Jeeny, her hands wrapped around a mug, nails tapping the ceramic with anxious rhythm. Her dark hair fell loose over her shoulders, and there was a quiver in her voice when she finally spoke.

Jeeny: “I read something last night… by Tess Gerritsen. She wrote, ‘I am a bad mother. Every Christmas, this is what I think because the holiday season fills me with such anxiety. I'm sure that other mothers are happily baking cookies, decorating trees, and finding perfect gifts for everyone.’”

Host: The words lingered in the air, delicate and heavy, like the snowflakes settling outside.

Jack: “Another confession wrapped in sentiment. People romanticize guilt these days. Every December, the same thing — the myth of perfect families, perfect holidays, perfect mothers. It’s an illusion we all buy into.”

Jeeny: “You call it an illusion. I call it pain. Do you know how many women feel that way? How many sit through the holidays thinking they’ve failed their children because their hearts are too tired to bake cookies?”

Host: Jack leaned forward, his fingers tapping the table, his voice low, edged with skepticism.

Jack: “But isn’t that the problem? Comparing yourself to a fantasy? No one forced that thought into her head. Society’s expectations only have power if you give them permission to. It’s self-inflicted.”

Jeeny: “Self-inflicted?” — she laughed, bitter and soft — “That’s easy to say when you’re not living it. When you’re not the one holding a child at 2 a.m. because the world says you should love every moment, even when you’re breaking inside.”

Host: Her eyes glistened under the dim light, but her voice stayed steady, anchored by quiet conviction.

Jack: “So what — every mother is supposed to crumble and call herself broken? What’s next, celebrating imperfection as virtue? There’s a point when guilt becomes indulgence, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. There’s a point when guilt becomes truth. And it’s the truth that saves you. You see, that guilt — it’s not weakness. It’s love with nowhere to go. It’s proof she still cares enough to think she’s failing.”

Host: A pause. Outside, the wind whispered against the glass, and a child’s laughter floated faintly from across the street.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But guilt doesn’t raise a child. Strength does. Focus. Stability. Not this… emotional self-flagellation dressed as honesty.”

Jeeny: “And yet, strength means nothing without tenderness. You can hold a house together with order, Jack, but not a home. The ‘perfect’ mother you speak of — she doesn’t exist. But every real mother, terrified and imperfect, is still building love out of exhaustion. That’s the miracle.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He looked away, as if the reflection of himself in the window unsettled him.

Jack: “You know, my mother never said things like that. She didn’t talk about guilt or exhaustion. She just did what needed to be done. No talk, no tears.”

Jeeny: “And you admire that?”

Jack: “She survived. That’s what mattered.”

Jeeny: “Survival isn’t the same as living, Jack. You can’t measure love by endurance. Look at Sylvia Plath — she tried so hard to live up to the image of the perfect mother and artist. The world applauded her brilliance but never forgave her fragility. That’s what Gerritsen’s words mean — the quiet torment of never feeling enough, even when you are.”

Host: The room seemed to grow quieter; the sound of the espresso machine hissed like a sigh. Jack’s eyes softened, but his brow stayed furrowed, as if something inside him was resisting her truth.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. But don’t you think guilt can also be vanity? A way to keep yourself at the center of the story? While everyone else — the children, the partner — gets lost in the shadow of your self-doubt?”

Jeeny: “Vanity? No, Jack. Vanity is pretending everything’s fine when it isn’t. Vanity is the performance of perfection. This — this anxiety, this honesty — is humility. It’s the recognition that love alone doesn’t make you limitless.”

Host: The rain began to replace the snow, tapping softly against the windowpane. The lights from passing cars streaked across their faces like broken ribbons of gold and grey.

Jack: “So, what then? Every holiday becomes a ritual of self-pity? Everyone writes essays about how miserable they are, and we all applaud?”

Jeeny: “It’s not self-pity, Jack. It’s confession. And confession is the bridge between pain and peace. Every mother who admits she’s scared gives another the permission to breathe. Don’t you see the beauty in that?”

Host: Her voice trembled now, not from weakness but from compassion too heavy to contain. Jack watched her, his expression unreadable, his grey eyes tracing the way her words fell like quiet rain.

Jack: “You talk like every flaw is sacred.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Because flaws are where the truth lives. Every scar is a map back to humanity. Don’t you ever feel that, Jack? That maybe strength isn’t about holding everything together — but about not pretending when it’s falling apart?”

Host: Jack exhaled slowly, his fingers curling around his cup. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then — softly — he spoke, his voice almost human again.

Jack: “When I was twelve, my mother forgot Christmas. She’d been working double shifts at the hospital. Came home past midnight. No dinner. No tree. I remember sitting on the floor, waiting. I thought she didn’t care. But when she walked in — she looked at me, and I saw it — that same guilt, the same exhaustion. I didn’t understand it then. But now… maybe that was her way of loving.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what Gerritsen means. The guilt isn’t a failure — it’s proof of love trying to stretch beyond what’s humanly possible.”

Host: The air between them warmed, not from the heater but from something quieter — an understanding unfolding like dawn behind the clouds.

Jack: “So maybe I was wrong. Maybe guilt isn’t the enemy. Maybe it’s the echo of love in an impossible world.”

Jeeny: “And maybe love is just learning to forgive yourself for not being perfect.”

Host: The rain eased. The café light shimmered against the wet street outside, where the reflections of passing people blurred into silver trails. Jeeny smiled faintly, and Jack, for once, did not hide his weariness.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… I think every mother — every person — carries that quiet fear of being not enough. But maybe being enough isn’t about perfection. Maybe it’s just about being present.”

Jack: “Presence instead of performance.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: Silence settled again. The snow had turned to mist, wrapping the city in a pale, forgiving veil. Jack looked at Jeeny, and for the first time, the hardness in his eyes gave way to something softer — understanding, perhaps even peace.

Jack: “You’d make a terrible Santa, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Why’s that?”

Jack: “Because you’d spend all night apologizing for not having enough gifts.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I’d still make sure every child knew they were loved.”

Host: They both laughed quietly, the sound fragile and real — like cracked glass catching the light. The clock above the counter struck six. Outside, the world began to shimmer in faint hues of morning.

Host: And in that moment, the weight of expectation, guilt, and comparison seemed to lift — just a little. Because sometimes, even in imperfection, there is grace. And perhaps that — not cookies, not gifts, not decorations — is the truest spirit of Christmas.