Why I Stayed Home

“Listen, Sarah, we have to leave now,”  Mom pressed, poking her head around the door.

“For the hundredth time, Mom, I'm not going,” I replied, not even bothering to look up from my laptop.

“But Sarah,” Mom protested. “You can't just skip out on Christmas with your family.  You've been going to your grandpa's for Christmas dinner since you were a little kid.  Get moving and change into something nice.”  She swiped a strand of blond hair out of her face in exasperation.

“Grandpa's dead, Mom,” I reminded her.  “Besides, there's no cousins my age.  And Dad's not going either.”

“Which is just why I need you along,” she insisted, face tight and anxious. “For support.”

“Mom, I'm not going and that's final,” I finally told her, frustrated.

She sagged against the wall, defeated. “You really mean it?”

“I mean it.”

After my mom left, I started to regret that I hadn't gone along. After all, it was Christmas.  And the whole family would be there.  Except my trucker dad.  And me.  Really, I had no reason to stay home.  No reason except that little niggling voice in my brain that made me want to stay at home.

  After some frozen pizza and soda, I decided to go to bed early.  The house was too quiet without Mom around.

The next morning when I woke up Mom was nowhere around.  The garage was empty.  I called my dad.  When he heard my voice, he exclaimed hoarsely, “Sarah!  You're alive!”

It was then that I realized why I hadn't wanted to go.  While Mom and the others were eating their turkey, a gas leak in the basement had caused an explosion.  Every single person had been killed.