On Christmas, my children locked me in my room “so I could rest.” Later, I overheard my daughter-in-law say, “No one wants to deal with her drama.” Everyone laughed. The next day, I vanished—and when they found out what I’d done, it was far too late. The brass key felt icy between my fingers as I twisted it in the lock of the guest room door. Christmas morning, and I was a prisoner in my own son’s house. From downstairs came the sound of laughter, clinking glasses, the smell of honey-glazed ham.