My mother wants all her kids and grandkids to spend Christmas Eve at her house and wake up on Christmas morning together.

Sounds reasonable, right? And it would be.

If it weren’t my mother.

My husband, Declan, is protesting any involvement, though he’s openly intrigued by the idea of claiming his territory by having sex in my childhood bed.

And by intrigued, I mean a series of really hot suggestions that make me whimper when I have to say no.

Wait — why am I saying no, again?

Mom has turned her house into a Christmas showcase that makes Frankenmuth look like the picked-over clearance rack at Target on December 26. You know those crazy people on Etsy who make felted gnomes out of belly-button lint and use… a certain kind of hair… to make thatched roofs on little decorative elf homes?

Those people are saner than my mother.

There is no force of nature stronger — or more emotionally volatile — than a fifty-something grandmother determined to create holiday memories.

Wait a minute. Maybe there is.

My husband.