Christmas With Mom—But Not Each Other

The daily beast

By JENNIFER KLINEC

Each year, on the 22nd or 23rd of December, I stand on the platform with my husband and wait for the Piccadilly line to Heathrow. Beside him is our largest suitcase, stuffed with gifts of clothing, fancy shampoos and a few carefully hidden rounds of the Stilton his family have developed a taste for. As the train approaches he kisses my hand, the only affection he is comfortable showing me in public, then he boards the train leaving me behind.

My own journey will follow a few days later. It also requires me to pack, but my own bag is roughly one third the size. I take little more than my best chef’s knife and a few cookbooks. Maybe a pepper mill and a bag of good coffee. I won’t be going out anywhere fancy—perhaps the local bistro or family-run trattoria—so jeans and shoes suited to walking on cobblestones will work well.

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