The Holiday Committee

Tove hadn’t expected retirement to feel quite so empty. After thirty-two years of teaching mathematics, the silence in her house seemed to have mathematical properties of its own: infinite, irrational, and utterly impossible to solve. That’s why she joined the Holiday Committee.

“We’re so pleased to have new blood,” said Margaret, the treasurer, while Elsa snorted into her coffee cup. Tove pretended not to notice. She’d dealt with enough teenage attitude to last a lifetime – some seventy-year-old’s disapproval wasn’t going to ruin her day.

The Methodist Church basement smelled like instant coffee and sugar cookies. Five women sat around a folding table, planning the town’s Halloween festival. Tove had ideas. Many ideas. Mathematical, precisely calculated ideas about optimal candy distribution and maximum trick-or-treating efficiency.

Elsa had other ideas.

“We’ve done it this way for twenty-seven years,” Elsa announced, her silver hair arranged in perfect waves that somehow made Tove’s practical bob feel inferior. “The parade goes down Main Street, turns left at Wilson, and ends at the park. Simple.”

Crash. Bang. Scatter-thunder-boom.

Tove’s son Tom burst through the basement door, followed by a young woman with silver hair arranged in perfect waves. “Mom!” they both shouted simultaneously.

Silence dropped like a guillotine.

“You know each other?” Tom asked, looking between Tove and Elsa with growing horror. The young woman – who must be Elsa’s daughter – grabbed Tom’s hand. Their fingers interlaced with practiced familiarity.

Something inside Tove’s chest contracted. Expanded. Imploded.

“We’re engaged!” announced the young woman – Sarah, that was her name – while Tom grinned like he’d just won the lottery. Which he hadn’t, because Tove knew exactly how improbable lottery wins were, and she’d taught Tom better than to waste money on tickets.

Elsa’s coffee cup hit the saucer with a decisive clink. Their eyes met across the folding table, and in that moment, Tove knew they were thinking the same thing: This cannot stand.

The meeting dissolved into chaos. Congratulations from Margaret, questions about dates and venues, while Tove and Elsa sat in symmetrical silence, matching storm clouds gathering behind their eyes.

Afterwards, in the parking lot: “Your son?” Elsa’s voice could have frozen mercury.

“Your daughter?” Tove countered, equally glacial.

They stood between their cars – Elsa’s immaculate Lexus, Tove’s practical Subaru – while autumn leaves skittered across the asphalt like nature’s own anxiety attack.

“He’s too young,” they said simultaneously, then glared at each other.

“Sarah’s only twenty-four,” Elsa continued. “She hasn’t figured out what she wants from life.”

“Tom just started his PhD,” Tove countered. “He needs to focus on his research, not… not…”

“Wedding planning,” they finished together.

And just like that, an alliance was born.

OPERATION: SEPARATION commenced the following Tuesday. Tove calculated the statistical probability of various intervention strategies while Elsa provided intel on Sarah’s weaknesses. They met in secret at the 24-hour diner on the edge of town, hunched over laminated menus and plotting like teenagers.

“Sarah’s always wanted to work abroad,” Elsa mentioned casually, stirring her decaf. “There’s an opening at my friend’s gallery in Paris.”

“Tom’s advisor mentioned a research opportunity in Tokyo,” Tove mused, breaking apart a sugar packet with scientific precision.

They smiled at each other, co-conspirators in the art of subtle sabotage.

But their children proved frustratingly resilient.

Sarah got the job in Paris. Tom immediately applied for research grants in France. Tom received the Tokyo offer. Sarah started learning Japanese with suspicious enthusiasm. Every attempt at separation seemed to result in their children finding new, creative ways to stay together.

Meanwhile, the Holiday Committee descended into cold war.

“The parade route needs updating,” Tove insisted, brandishing traffic flow charts. “My calculations show–“

“Twenty-seven years!” Elsa interrupted, wielding tradition like a weapon.

Quick-sharp-sudden the room tilted sideways as Sarah and Tom appeared again, bearing news of their expedited wedding plans. “We thought, why wait?” Sarah bubbled, while Tom nodded earnestly. “Small ceremony, next month, before we move to Singapore.”

“Singapore?” Tove and Elsa chorused in horror.

“Amazing opportunity,” Tom explained. “Joint research project. Sarah can work at the museum there.”

The world spun like a carnival ride gone wrong. Tove’s carefully calculated plans dissolved into chaos theory. Elsa’s perfect hair actually deflated.

That night, they met at the diner again. Ordered pie. Didn’t eat it.

“They’re happy,” Tove said finally, her voice small against the clatter of midnight dishes.

“Disgustingly so,” Elsa agreed, pushing her untouched cherry pie across the table with one manicured finger.

The revelation hit them both at once: their children had found something real, something mathematical in its precision, artistic in its execution, and absolutely terrifying in its implications.

“We’re going to be family,” Tove realized, horror and humor mixing in equal measures.

“Oh god,” Elsa groaned, but there might have been a laugh hiding underneath.

The next Holiday Committee meeting, something shifted. Tove presented her traffic flow charts. Elsa actually looked at them. “We could… try a modified route,” she offered, surprising everyone. “Keep the traditional elements but optimize the flow.”

Tove blinked. Considered. “The Wilson Street turn is iconic,” she admitted. “We could work with that.”

Margaret dropped her cookie in shock.

The Halloween parade that year was the most successful in twenty-seven years – twenty-eight, if you asked Elsa, which Tove did, frequently, usually over Sunday dinner where their children watched them with suspicious joy.

“You two hated each other at first,” Sarah commented one evening, while Tom nodded sagely.

“Hate is a strong word,” Elsa demurred, passing Tove the mashed potatoes without being asked.

“Mathematical impossibility,” Tove agreed, somehow understanding Elsa’s unspoken potato craving.

Their children exchanged knowing looks. “Sure,” Tom said, in that tone he’d definitely inherited from Tove.

“Whatever you say,” Sarah added, with Elsa’s exact eye-roll.

Later, planning the Christmas festival, Tove and Elsa bent over blueprints together, arguing about optimal Santa placement with the comfortable familiarity of people who had discovered that sometimes the best calculations aren’t mathematical at all.

“Twenty-eight years,” Tove teased, while Elsa pretended to glare.

“Twenty-seven and a half,” Elsa corrected primly. Then, softer: “But who’s counting?”

They both were, of course. They both always would be. But now they were counting together, and somehow that made all the difference in the world.