“You wouldn’t dare!” they said with one voice, their faces all with the same open-mouthed shock-horror expression.

“We always have Christmas here, at home. You can’t not do it here!”

I looked at him and he looked at me. We both shrugged. “Our home isn’t here anymore,” he reminded them. “We’re moving, remember. The boxes are filling up; the removal van is booked. We’re moving on.”

“But we’re your children. We’ve always had Christmas together.”

“Nobody said you couldn’t come with us,” I said.

Their turn to look at one another.

“To the countryside?” Jim asked.

“That farmhouse?” Emma asked.

“In the field?” Bea asked

“And sleep on the floor?” Sara asked.

Continue reading here: Microfiction #writephoto: Home