On Christmas Eve, I Visited My Missing Parents’ Abandoned House and Found It Beautifully Decorated

It’s been twenty years since I last spoke to my parents. Twenty years since they kicked me out for getting pregnant.

I was 18, young and terrified, but stubborn enough to stand my ground. I still remember my dad’s voice, the anger almost chilling me to my bones.

“If you leave with him, Megan, don’t bother coming back!” he yelled. “I don’t want to see you again! You’re a mess, and instead of choosing to be better, you’re choosing self-destruction.”

I left anyway.

That same night, my mom stood quietly at the door, her arms wrapped around herself, watching me go. She didn’t say anything; she just let me walk out into the cold.

“That’s it? You’re not going to say anything? Mom, really?” I said.

She opened her mouth for a second. Instead of saying anything, she just went inside and closed the door.

They never forgave me.

But here I am, twenty years later. I’m thirty-eight, with three beautiful kids and a man who’s been by my side through it all. Evan and I were high school sweethearts, and when I got pregnant, I really thought that he was going to leave me.

“Why would I leave you?” he asked, holding the pregnancy test. “We’re in this together, Megan.”

“But what about your football scholarship to college? You’d give that up?” I asked.

“Of course, I would,” he said. “Let’s do this, Meg. You, me, and the baby!”

Just like that, I decided to tell my parents, which is how my father threw me out.

Despite everything, we built a life. A really good life. And let me tell you, I don’t regret a single thing. Evan works hard, and our kids, Ella, Maya, and Ben, are everything I ever dreamed of.

If you had told my 18-year-old self that I’d still be with him two decades later, I would have laughed through my tears.

But here we are.

Happy.

The last time I visited my parents’ house was five years ago. They had gone missing on a hiking trip in the mountains. It was supposed to be a short getaway, apparently.

Just a weekend.

But they never came back.

“I’m sorry, Megan,” our neighbor, Mr. Smith, said when I went over to ask about my parents. “You really didn’t hear about it? The incident?”

“What incident? What are you talking about?” I asked, an uneasy feeling taking over me.

“They went hiking, Megan. You know, the usual long weekend trips that they make? They left the keys here for me to feed the dog. But at the end of the weekend, they didn’t return.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“When they didn’t come back, I reported it to the police, and a search party was sent out. The officers said that all they found were their abandoned backpacks on a cliff,” he sighed.

“No… bodies?” I asked, my voice threatening to break.

As strained as our relationship was, I always expected my parents to be here, at home. For them to always be within those four walls for when I needed them.

I always counted on them to be there for the day I decided to bring my children to meet them.

And now?… they were gone.

“No, sweetheart,” Mr. Smith said. “No bodies, no footprints, nothing. They were just gone. They vanished without a trace.”

After that, it was all about getting the house signed over to me. I didn’t want to do anything with it, I just wanted to keep it there. I went to the police station and the detective signed off on the case as a cold case.

“Move on, Megan,” he said. “We’ve had no leads in years.”

The issue was proving that I was their daughter, luckily there was a clause in my father’s will, stating that everything would be mine if he and my mother passed.

For five years after, the house sat empty. I never had the courage to sell it, though. Something about letting it go felt wrong.

So, it just stood there, gathering dust and neglect, frozen in time like a ghost of the past I wasn’t ready to confront.

Until tonight.

It was Christmas Eve. And for reasons I couldn’t explain, I found myself driving toward the old place instead of getting the extra butter that Evan and I needed for the turkey the next day.

The house was abandoned and had been for the past five years. As I drove, I imagined exactly how it would look after all these years. I imagined the cracked front windows and the streaks of graffiti across the walls like battle scars.

I imagined the weeds swallowing the flower beds that my mother used to love, and the wooden porch, which was most likely splintered and sagging under the years of neglect.

When I pulled into the driveway, my chest tightened at the sight of the house.

It was decorated.

Not just randomly decorated, but beautifully decorated. The old garlands of twinkling lights my dad used to string along the eaves were glowing softly against the evening sky.

There was a faded wreath with little bells, which hung crookedly on the front door. There were the familiar plastic candy canes lining the path to the house.

I even recognized the same wooden reindeer we used to set up every December. They were all old and chipped but still standing proudly on the lawn.

My heart raced as I stepped out of the car. How could this be?

Who would have done something like this? No one lived there. No one had for years.

As I walked around, I saw a little generator on the porch. It was hooked up to the lights, fueling them among the rest of the desolate house.

The decorations looked exactly the way my dad used to do them. The same lights, the same setup. A lump formed in my throat. It was like stepping back into my childhood, as if time had rewound itself.

Even if it was just for one night.

I had to know who was behind this. I needed to know if it was real or if it was in my head.

The front door was slightly ajar. I hesitated for a moment, my pulse quick and uneven, before gently pushing it open.

Inside, the house smelled of dust and memories, but the living room…

The living room took my breath away.

A Christmas tree stood by the fireplace, just like the ones from my childhood. It was decorated with mismatched ornaments and too many strands of tinsel. The stockings were hung on the mantel, and beneath the tree were a few wrapped presents, tied with fraying ribbons.

And then I saw him.

A figure sat in front of the fireplace, hunched slightly, silhouetted by the glow of the dying fire.

I couldn’t stop myself. The word slipped from my lips before I could think.

“Dad?” I called.

The figure stirred and turned slowly toward me, the firelight flickering across his face.

It wasn’t my dad.

It was a young man in his mid-thirties, I think. His dark hair was tousled, and his face was shadowed by exhaustion. He wore a threadbare coat, and his cheeks were pink from the cold.

But as soon as I saw him, I knew exactly who he was.

“Max?” I whispered.

His eyes widened, and a small, embarrassed smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You remember me? Megan?”

Of course, I remembered him.

He used to be the little boy who lived next door, the one with the messy hair and a toothy grin. But then, he couldn’t have been older than me.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

Max glanced around the room.

“I’ve been staying here. Just for the winters, Megan,” he admitted. “It’s the second year now.”

I stared at him.

“Why?”

“I don’t really have anywhere else to go,” he said, holding his head.

It took me a minute to process what he was saying.

“Max, are you homeless?” I asked.

He gave a small nod.

“Yeah,” he said. “My adoptive parents, the Smiths? They kicked me out, actually. It was after you came around about ten years ago, and my dad told you about your parents. I’ve had some rotten luck, and I guess they just didn’t want to care for me anymore. It’s hard, you know? Finding work. I was between friends for a while… but even they got tired.”

My chest tightened at his words.

He glanced around the room, a smile playing on his lips.

“I remembered how your dad used to decorate the house. You guys had the nicest house in the neighborhood. When I was walking around for old time’s sake, I saw that the house was still empty. And I made myself at home… I found the decorations in the basement.”

We were both quiet for a while.

“Why didn’t you get rid of the place?” he asked me.

“I don’t have any good answers,” I said. “I just wanted to keep it the way it was.”

Max nodded.

Something broke inside me at that moment. I had been through everything Max had just described.

“Come home with me,” I said. “Nobody should spend Christmas alone. And anyway, I have three kids who will need distracting from the pile of Christmas presents at home.”

Max’s eyes widened, and for a second, he looked like that same little boy from all those years ago, the one who had been desperate for someone to care.

Now, sitting in my living room, watching my kids get to know someone from my past, I realize what I need to do.

Evan and I have some savings. It could be enough to do the house up properly. Once it’s fixed, Max can live there. He can rent out a couple of rooms to boarders if he needs the extra income. It’s not much, but it’s a start, and I know it will give him a chance to get back on his feet.

I put my cup of hot chocolate down on the coffee table. I was getting excited.

I don’t know if my parents would approve of the plan, but it doesn’t matter. That house doesn’t belong to their memory anymore. It’s time to give it a new purpose.

And who knows? Maybe the money we make from it will go toward Ella, Maya, or Ben’s college fund someday.

What would you have done?

If you’ve enjoyed this story, here’s another one for you |

I Dropped My Naughty Kids at My Parents’ Home — I Was Shocked When They Were Good as Gold When I Picked Them Up

When Cara and her husband get an invitation to an adult-only party, they welcome the break from being parents of three for a few hours. Thankfully, her parents are ready to save the day and babysit the kids. But when Cara and Jason go back to fetch the kids, they’re shocked with the change in their behavior.

“Are you sure that the kids will be okay?” my husband, Jason, asked me as I went through my closet trying to find something to wear.

“Yes!” I exclaimed. “They will be absolutely fine with my parents.”

“It’s just that you know how they can be,” Jason said. “The kids, not your parents. They’re a handful.”

“They’ll be fine,” I repeated.

But my husband wasn’t wrong.

Read the full story here.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.