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Thanksgiving morning felt too perfect to be real — the kind of quiet, cozy morning you only see in movies. I woke to the warm scent of cinnamon drifting through the hallway, grounded by the sharper kick of fresh coffee. For a moment, I thought I’d dreamed it. My husband, Eric, doesn’t wake up early. He doesn’t cook. And yet, when I walked into the kitchen, there he was — barefoot, cracking eggs like he’d been doing it his whole life.

“Morning, babe,” he said, giving me a grin that didn’t match the man I’d lived with for eight years. “I took the day off. I’m cooking Thanksgiving dinner this year. Your job is to relax.”

Relax. On Thanksgiving. I almost laughed. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” he said, whisk in hand. “No chopping, no basting, no yelling at the oven.”

“I don’t yell,” I muttered.

“Sure you don’t.” He bent, kissed my forehead, and added, “Go get your weird tea at the café. Come back later. I want this to be a surprise.”

He looked almost proud of himself, sleeves rolled up like he was auditioning for a cooking show. Maybe, I thought, this was him turning a corner. Growing up. Trying.

“Okay,” I said. “But call if you need anything.”

“I’ve got this, Coraline,” he said — the name only my mother uses. I should’ve noticed. I didn’t.

Two hours later, my chai latte was cold, my book unread, and something in my gut felt off. I grabbed my phone and opened the nanny cam feed — the one we installed after a string of break-ins. I only meant to check in. I didn’t expect my life to split open.

The video loaded, and a woman walked into my kitchen like she owned the place — glossy brown hair, cream sweater hugging her curves, heels tapping like she was arriving for a photoshoot. She wasn’t confused or sneaking. She moved like she’d memorized the path between counters.

Then Eric followed behind her.

“Mel,” he said softly.

She smiled. “This house always smells so good. It’s the cinnamon, isn’t it, babe?”

She leaned into him, and he wrapped his arms around her waist like it was muscle memory. Their kiss was slow. Familiar. Confident.

The café around me blurred out. My chest locked. My hands shook.

“Oh, Eric,” she said, scanning my kitchen. “Where’s the famous turkey your wife thinks you’re cooking?”

Eric laughed — laughed. “Cora practically cried when I said I’d cook this year.”

“Poor thing,” Mel giggled. “So trusting.”

My vision tunneled as I watched them season two turkeys — one for the dinner tonight, one for their “private Thanksgiving tomorrow.” When she reached for him, when he slapped her backside and she squealed, something in me snapped cleanly.

I closed the app. No screaming. No crying. Just cold, sharp silence.

Thanksgiving dinner had just become a stage. And Eric had already cast himself as the idiot.

I didn’t go home. I drifted through the botanical gardens like a ghost, letting the cold air steady me. I watched a little girl feed ducks while her father snapped pictures, my mind replaying each second of betrayal.

“Let him think he fooled me,” I whispered. “Let him think he’s winning.”

When I finally walked through the door at four, the house smelled like the holiday I wanted — rosemary, garlic, cloves, pie warming on the counter. It should’ve hurt. It didn’t. Not anymore.

“Cora!” Eric called. “Surprise!”

He beamed proudly, apron dusted with flour. I surveyed the table — spotless, magazine-perfect — and I smiled like a woman in love.

“This is amazing, honey,” I said sweetly. “You really outdid yourself.”

He kissed my cheek, still smelling faintly like someone else. And I let him soak in every compliment.

Family arrived at six. My mom with her perfect chutney jars. My dad with pies. My brother Chad with his snark and beer. Eric’s parents, glowing with pride. Everyone fussed over Eric’s meal, praising him, teasing him, marveling at his “talent.”

Eric preened. “Cooking just comes naturally to me.”

I checked my coat pocket, feeling the phone that held the screen recording. I’d captured the video earlier under a bare tree, hands trembling. Now, the evidence sat there waiting like a lit fuse.

After dessert, I stood.

“Before we end the night, I want to give a toast,” I said. “But first… you should see something.”

Eric’s grin froze.

I clicked the remote.

The TV lit up with an image of my kitchen from hours earlier.

“What’s that, honey?” his mother asked.

“It’s just a little behind-the-scenes footage,” I said calmly.

I pressed play.

Mel appeared on screen. Then Eric. Then their kiss. Their laughter. Their turkey for tomorrow. Their mockery.

The room went silent except for the sound of my world finally righting itself.

Eric shot to his feet. “Turn it off! Coraline, turn it off!”

I didn’t.

His mother gasped. His father swore. My brother muttered, “Unbelievable,” under his breath.

When the video ended, I lifted my glass.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Eric.”

He sputtered, desperate. “Cora, it’s not what it looks like—”

“It’s exactly what it looks like,” his mother snapped. “I’m ashamed of you.”

His father added, “You brought another woman into your wife’s kitchen. Into her home.”

“This is my house!” Eric shouted.

“No,” I said. “My parents helped me buy this house. Your name is nowhere on the deed.”

His mouth opened, then closed. No one defended him. Not his parents. Not mine. Not even himself.

“You’re leaving tonight,” I said. “Your mistress has a turkey waiting.”

He stared at me, broken. “Cora… please—”

“No,” I said. “You’ve performed enough today.”

Chad opened the door for him. Eric walked out into the cold with nothing but his coat.

The click of the door behind him felt like the first inhale after drowning.

Later, as the family quietly cleaned up around me, my mother squeezed my hand. “You didn’t deserve this.”

“I know,” I said. And I meant it.

The tears never came. Because I hadn’t lost anything that was mine.

What I gained was something I should’ve claimed years ago:

My self-respect.

And the truth is simple — betrayal doesn’t always break you.

Sometimes, it just clears the room.

Donald Trump has never been shy about stirring controversy, but this year’s late-night Thanksgiving message ignited a political firestorm unlike anything he’s delivered during the holiday season before. What should’ve been a simple greeting — a moment of national calm — turned into a scorched-earth rant that stunned not just his critics, but many of his own supporters as well.

Hours earlier, the nation was already tense. Two National Guard members had been shot near the White House, setting off alarms about security and immigration policy. Officials identified the suspect as 29-year-old Rahmanullah Lakanwal, an Afghan national who arrived in the U.S. in 2021. He was later injured by law enforcement and hospitalized. The tragedy reignited a raging political battle — and Trump seized the moment.

Late that night, he posted a message on Truth Social that began like a standard holiday greeting but quickly veered into hostile territory. What followed wasn’t a Thanksgiving message — it was a political broadside. Trump demanded what he called a “permanent pause” on immigration from all “Third World countries,” tying the D.C. shooting directly to national policy. Then he expanded his criticism, blasting Democratic leaders with fiery language that was shocking even by his standards.

But the part that blew up the internet came next.

In the same message, Trump used a derogatory slur to refer to Minnesota Governor Tim Walz and made sharp, inflammatory comments about Representative Ilhan Omar, once again invoking her background, her faith, and her immigrant history. Screenshots of the post spread like wildfire within minutes.

Walz responded within the hour with a short message on X — pointed, cold, and impossible to ignore: “Release the MRI results.”

It was a rare moment where a sitting governor effectively implied a former president was mentally unfit — and did so publicly.

Then CNN revealed a detail that undercut Trump’s core claim. While he implied the Biden administration was responsible for allowing Lakanwal into the country, immigration records showed something else entirely: Lakanwal had applied for asylum in 2024, and his application was approved in April 2025 — under Trump’s own administration.

When a reporter asked Trump about that discrepancy, he dismissed her as “stupid” and sidestepped the correction entirely.

His Thanksgiving message continued for several paragraphs, escalating rather than cooling down. Trump insisted the country was being overrun by people who “hate, steal, murder, and destroy everything that America stands for,” promising that such individuals “won’t be here for long.” The post exploded across social platforms, instantly becoming one of the most discussed political statements of the holiday.

Reactions were predictably split. Trump loyalists praised his bluntness, calling it “necessary truth-telling.” Others — including conservatives who still support parts of his agenda — said the language crossed a line, especially on a day traditionally reserved for unity and gratitude. Immigrant communities, advocacy groups, and several lawmakers condemned the remarks as xenophobic and dangerous.

Meanwhile, independent analysts pointed out that Trump’s proposed “permanent pause” on immigration raises constitutional questions, logistical issues, and potential blowback from allies abroad. But none of that slowed the momentum online. The debate metastasized within hours, with thousands of posts dissecting the slur he used, the timing of the message, and the broader intent behind it.

The backdrop of the D.C. shooting only intensified the discourse. While the investigation remains ongoing, the revelation that the suspect’s asylum approval occurred under Trump’s own administration added a layer of irony — one the former president clearly wanted to avoid addressing.

What made the message even more striking was the sheer contrast between the nation’s expectation — a simple “Happy Thanksgiving” — and what they received: a storm of insults, warnings, and explosive declarations about immigration, national security, and political enemies. It was a reminder that Trump doesn’t shift tone for holidays, for tragedy, or for optics.

And yet, the timing was strategic. Immigration is once again a central issue ahead of 2026, and Trump has always thrived when the national conversation is volatile. This message ensured he dominated the political space across Thanksgiving weekend.

Now, with investigations ongoing, tempers still high, and fact-checkers dissecting every sentence of his post, the fallout from Trump’s Thanksgiving message is far from over. It will shape the debates in the coming days — from cable news panels to kitchen tables.

Whether viewed as refreshing honesty or reckless provocation, one thing is certain: Trump made sure no one ended Thanksgiving night thinking about turkey, gratitude, or family traditions.

He made the day about him — and the country is still arguing about what he said.

Linda Evans is one of those rare stars whose presence doesn’t fade with time — it deepens. At 82, she still radiates the sort of effortless grace that made her a television icon in the 1980s, a decade many people remember with an almost nostalgic ache. The music was better, the fashion was bold, and primetime TV felt like a nightly event. And at the center of that era’s glossy, glamorous entertainment was Dynasty — and Linda Evans, the woman who helped define it.

Her story begins far from the spotlight. Born Linda Evenstad on November 18, 1942, she grew up in a quiet Norwegian-American family, the middle child with a temperament to match — soft-spoken, reserved, almost shy. Her family’s name traced back to a tiny farm in Norway where her great-grandmother lived before emigrating to America in 1884. When Linda was six months old, her family moved to North Hollywood, landing her right in the orbit of an industry that would eventually shape her life.

She wasn’t a natural attention-seeker, but she had a quiet presence people noticed. Acting wasn’t even her idea — a high school drama classmate pushed her into it, sensing something she didn’t yet see in herself. That push turned out to be the pivot point of her life. From small guest roles to commercial spots, her path was steady, not meteoric. She worked as a cashier at a local theater long before she had her own star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame — which was eventually placed just a few steps away from where she had once taken tickets as a teenager.

Her real break came in 1965 when she landed the role of Audra Barkley in The Big Valley. Working alongside the formidable Barbara Stanwyck forced Evans to grow, toughen up, and take her craft seriously. That role put her on the map. But it was the 1980s — the era of hairspray, shoulder pads, and unapologetic opulence — that made her a household name worldwide.

In 1981, she stepped into the role of Krystle Carrington, the loyal, elegant moral anchor of Dynasty. Krystle wasn’t the loudest character, but she was the heart — the steady counterweight to the fiery, glamorous chaos brought by Joan Collins’s iconic Alexis Carrington. Their on-screen clashes became legendary: the catfights, the pool battles, the diamonds, the power suits. Despite all the spectacle, Evans grounded Krystle with sincerity, vulnerability, and a believable warmth. Her performance earned her a Golden Globe and multiple People’s Choice Awards, cementing her place in pop culture history.

But off-screen, Evans’ life carried its own drama — far quieter, far more painful. Her marriage to actor John Derek famously ended when he left her for 16-year-old Bo Derek, a scandal that dominated tabloids. Evans endured the humiliation with a composure that shocked even her critics. She never lashed out publicly. She never played the victim. Instead, she rebuilt her life quietly, eventually marrying developer Stan Herman — though that relationship, too, ended.

When Dynasty wrapped in 1989, Evans made a decision that few stars at her level ever make: she stepped away. She didn’t chase roles. She didn’t try to cling to relevance. She left Hollywood behind altogether, retreating to the peaceful Pacific Northwest to breathe, to heal, and to redefine herself outside of fame.

She embraced wellness, spirituality, quiet living. Cooking became a passion. Solitude became a friend. And Hollywood, as always, came calling eventually. In 2009, she unexpectedly joined Hell’s Kitchen UK, surprising everyone — including Gordon Ramsay — by winning the entire season. Her charm was undeniable, her humility refreshing, and her resilience on full display.

But her family carried heavy burdens. Cancer touched her family with brutal force: both parents battled it, as did two of her sisters. In 2020, when she participated in a Hope Walk, she dedicated it to her youngest sister, Charlie, who was fighting the disease at the time. In 2022, Charlie passed away. Evans posted a quiet, heartbreaking tribute: “My beloved sister Charlie, forever in my heart.”

Evans herself faced serious health challenges. A slipped disc caused agonizing chronic pain; she admitted that at her lowest moments, she understood how suffering could push a person toward despair. Cortisone injections weakened her hair, and she struggled with depression. In 2014, she was cited for reckless driving after taking a sleeping pill while in severe pain — a moment she later called a turning point. Pain management, surgeries, and laser treatments eventually brought her relief, and slowly, she reclaimed her energy, her confidence, her peace.

Today, Linda Evans lives far from the glitter of Hollywood in a calm, secluded estate outside Olympia, Washington. She sold her sprawling “Northwest villa” and chose something simpler — a cozy home surrounded by 70 acres of trees and wildlife. Deer wander through her yard. She grows her own fruits and vegetables. She keeps her Dynasty wardrobe in storage, admitting that she rarely opens the door because the memories are overwhelming.

Her home is warm, intimate, and filled with pieces of her long history. She often speaks about the power of silence, the necessity of introspection, and the deep comfort she’s found in living an authentic life. Where many stars cling to fame, Evans gracefully stepped away from it to understand who she was outside of the spotlight.

That’s the secret to her enduring appeal.

She didn’t chase relevance. She didn’t fall apart. She didn’t try to be something she wasn’t.

She simply evolved.

She is 82 now — elegant, grounded, unfiltered, and still turning heads not because of Hollywood glamour, but because of the life she has lived, the grace she has shown, and the quiet strength she carries.

Some stars burn out. Some flicker. Linda Evans isn’t one of them.

She keeps glowing — steady, warm, unmistakable — a reminder that true beauty isn’t about age at all.

It’s about character.

Jay Leno is 74 now, and he’s finally acknowledging what most people spend their lives dodging: time catches everyone. The man has been an institution in American entertainment for decades—workhorse comedian, late-night king, and the guy who could talk cars with the enthusiasm of a kid discovering engines for the first time. But age has a way of shifting priorities, and Leno is making decisions that underline one blunt truth he’s not afraid to say out loud: nobody gets out of here alive.

The accidents and health scares he’s survived didn’t soften him; they sharpened him. They reminded him that even the most relentless personalities hit limits eventually. So he’s doing what practical people do—putting his affairs in order. And in Leno’s world, that means addressing not just the finances and legalities, but the massive, historic, obsessively maintained car collection that defines him as much as his comedy ever did.

He’s setting aside a significant part of his fortune specifically to protect those cars after he’s gone. Not to sell them off. Not to chop the collection into profitable pieces. To preserve them. To keep them together. To make sure they’re treated the way he treated them—with respect, curiosity, and meticulous care. Leno has always insisted he doesn’t “own” these machines so much as he’s a temporary steward of automotive history, and he’s now ensuring that stewardship continues without him.

Anyone who knows his collection understands why he’s doing it. It’s not just a garage. It’s a rolling museum that tracks more than a century of engineering. Steam cars, jet-powered experiments, one-off prototypes, million-dollar supercars, classics restored to better-than-factory condition—he has it all. And he didn’t just stash them away as trophies. He drove them. He understood them. He took them apart and put them back together again. Every car in that warehouse has a story, and most of those stories include Leno’s hands covered in grease.

This isn’t a man passing down toys. This is a man passing down a legacy—one shaped in metal, fuel, and obsession. Cars were never a hobby for him. They were a language. They were the throughline of his life, the thing that grounded him when fame, schedules, and the demands of millions pulled him in a hundred directions. When he wasn’t performing, he was in the garage. That’s where he did some of his best thinking. That’s where he felt like himself.

And even now, long after most people would’ve slowed down, he’s still maintaining the collection with the same energy he had decades ago. But he’s realistic enough to know that at some point, even he won’t be the one behind the wheel. That realism isn’t grim—it’s responsible. He’s aware of what happens when massive collections fall into unprepared hands: they get scattered, neglected, or dumped on the market piece by piece. He won’t let that happen.

The truth is, Leno has never been sentimental in a corny way. He’s sentimental in a practical way. He believes in preserving things that matter. He believes in honoring craftsmanship. And he believes that if you care about something, you don’t leave its future to chance. So he’s building a plan that outlives him, a structure that keeps his life’s passion intact. He’s making sure the engines he loved so much keep running.

His fans aren’t surprised. If anything, they’re reflective. Leno has been a constant presence in their lives—someone who made people laugh every night and showed them that success doesn’t have to mean losing your grounding. He worked nonstop. He stayed out of scandal. He treated fame like a job, not a license to act like a monarch. And through it all, the cars were his anchor.

As he prepares for what he bluntly calls “the inevitable,” he’s not indulging in melodrama. He’s just facing the truth head-on, the same way he always has. Mortality doesn’t intimidate him. It motivates him. He knows the jokes will fade, the show clips will gather digital dust, and the world will move on. That’s how it goes. But this collection—this living archive of human ingenuity—can stand the test of time if he sets it up right. And that’s exactly what he intends to do.

He’s also aware that legacy isn’t about ego. It’s about contribution. The cars aren’t just rare machines; they’re lessons. They’re historical markers. They’re reminders of what ambitious people can build when they push limits and refuse to accept mediocrity. Leno wants future generations to experience that. He wants them to see the craftsmanship. He wants them to understand the evolution of engineering. He wants them to feel the same spark he felt the first time a motor growled to life under his hands.

He’s not trying to be immortal. He’s trying to preserve something that deserves to outlast him.

Behind the blunt tone and matter-of-fact attitude, there’s something honest about all of this. Leno has lived a big life, a loud life, a busy life. He’s been everything people expected of him and more. But he’s a realist before anything else. He knows the road has a finish line. He’s just making sure the vehicles he trusted and admired make it past that line without him.

In a way, this plan of his—this move to safeguard the collection—is the most personal thing he’s ever done. He’s not doing it for applause. He’s not doing it for headlines. He’s doing it because love for something, when it’s real, doesn’t evaporate when the end approaches. It becomes even clearer, even sharper.

Jay Leno has spent his lifetime with engines in his ears, grease on his sleeves, and an encyclopedic knowledge of automotive history in his head. He’s given the world humor and entertainment, but he’s also given it something tangible—machines preserved, stories preserved, history preserved. And now he’s making sure that the roar of those engines keeps echoing long after he can’t hear it anymore.

He’s preparing for the final lap with the same steady confidence he brought to every stage, every show, every project. He’s not afraid. He’s not dramatic. He’s practical, focused, and consistent. And as he sets the foundation for what happens next, one thing is clear: Jay Leno’s legacy won’t be defined by the day he stops breathing, but by the generations who will stand in front of those cars, long after he’s gone, and feel the spark he carried his whole life.

Donald Trump has spent years navigating investigations, lawsuits, political battles, and nonstop public scrutiny, but the latest development hits harder than the rest. On Thursday, prosecutors formally charged him with four criminal counts: conspiracy to defraud the United States, conspiracy to obstruct an official proceeding, obstruction and attempted obstruction of an official proceeding, and conspiracy to violate rights protected by the Constitution. These charges stem from his alleged role in a sequence of events that has defined American politics ever since—events tied to the chaos, pressure campaigns, and attempts to overturn the 2020 election results.

For a former president who has lived on headlines, this moment isn’t just another news cycle. It’s a legal escalation that puts him squarely in the center of a courtroom future he’s spent years trying to avoid. Prosecutors aren’t throwing vague accusations. They’re laying out structured, deliberate charges, each aimed at proving that Trump crossed legal lines as he tried to hold on to power after losing the election. And each count carries its own weight, its own implications, and its own potential consequences.

The conspiracy to defraud the United States charge focuses on the allegation that Trump knowingly pushed false claims of election fraud to undermine the lawful transition of power. Prosecutors argue that he wasn’t merely airing doubts or demanding investigations—he was knowingly spreading misinformation while pressuring officials, courts, and even his own vice president to bend the rules. The government’s position is straightforward: leaders don’t get to rewrite the outcome of an election simply because they don’t like the result.

The second and third charges—conspiracy to obstruct an official proceeding, and obstruction or attempted obstruction of that same proceeding—are connected to Congress’s certification of the Electoral College results. That certification is a constitutional requirement, a formal step that finalizes a presidential election. Prosecutors claim Trump tried to stop or delay that process through a combination of pressure tactics, last-ditch maneuvers, and encouragement of actions that ultimately disrupted Congress on January 6. Even without proving he physically participated, the allegation is that he played a direct role in setting the conditions for the obstruction to take place.

The fourth charge, conspiracy to violate civil rights, adds another layer. This one argues that Trump’s efforts effectively aimed to deny millions of voters their constitutionally protected right to have their ballots counted as cast. The government is framing this not as a political dispute, but as a violation of fundamental democratic rights.

For Trump, this isn’t just bad news—it’s a legal storm unlike any he has faced before. Lawsuits over business dealings, defamation claims, congressional investigations, political theater, all of that sits in a different category. These are federal criminal charges tied to the core of American governance. If prosecutors prove their case, they’re not just saying a former president bent the rules; they’re saying he attacked the democratic process itself.

This situation also lands at a moment when Trump remains a dominant figure in national politics. He continues to command attention, headlines, and a base that sees him as a political martyr and a fighter willing to take on the establishment. For his supporters, the charges are framed as another attempt to silence him, stop his momentum, or block him from returning to office. For his critics, the charges represent long-awaited accountability. The divide is wide, emotional, and as charged as the political climate that has defined the last several years.

But strip away the outrage, the commentary, and the online noise, and what remains is the cold reality of a criminal case. Prosecutors will present evidence. Defense attorneys will challenge it. Judges will rule on motions. Trials may run long, and appeals are almost guaranteed. This won’t be a quick saga. It will stretch, evolve, and dominate national attention as it inches through the system.

Trump is no stranger to legal fights, and he’s made a career out of projecting confidence, even in the face of serious allegations. But this is different. Federal charges relating to attempts to overturn an election carry a gravity that no press conference, rally speech, or social media blast can erase. The stakes aren’t financial. They’re existential—both for Trump’s political future and for how the nation defines accountability at the highest level of power.

The broader political world is bracing for the fallout. Campaigns are recalculating strategies. Commentators are preparing for months of analysis. Legal experts are dissecting every word in the indictment. And ordinary citizens are watching a moment in history unfold that feels unprecedented, because it is. The country has never seen a former president face charges like these.

Whatever side people land on, there’s no denying the scale of the situation. This isn’t a simple scandal or a fleeting controversy. It’s a clash between a former president and the justice system, with layers of political, legal, and cultural consequences that will ripple long after the case ends.

And that’s why this latest blow stands out. Trump has weathered storms before, but this one carries the full force of federal prosecution and the weight of the Constitution. It’s another chapter in a saga that refuses to slow down—a saga that continues to redefine modern American politics and test the limits of the country’s institutions.

For Trump, the path ahead is steep and unforgiving. For the nation, the outcome will shape how future generations understand power, responsibility, and the rule of law. And for now, one thing is certain: this is just the beginning of a long, hard fight that will keep unfolding in courtrooms, newsrooms, and political arenas across the country.

Ten of the country’s biggest retail chains are making a deliberate shift this holiday season, stepping away from the catch-all “Happy Holidays” and returning to a more traditional greeting: “Merry Christmas.” It’s a move that signals something larger than a seasonal slogan change. These companies want to plant a clear flag, emphasizing a focus on Christmas itself and the cultural weight it carries for many of their customers.

The list isn’t made up of fringe names or boutique shops. It includes major national players—Hobby Lobby, Belk, Nordstrom, Home Depot, Walmart, Macy’s, JCPenney, Bass Pro Shops, Lowe’s, and Toys “R” Us. Each of these retailers is integrating “Merry Christmas” into their advertising, signage, and store messaging. For years, many brands leaned heavily on neutral phrasing to keep things broadly inclusive. But this time, they’re leaning back into the traditional greeting that dominated American retail for decades.

According to the article, this isn’t happening by coincidence. These companies are making “a collective effort to bring back the traditional Christmas greeting,” suggesting a coordinated or at least shared sentiment across the industry. Retailers have always been sensitive to customer expectations, cultural shifts, and what signals will bring people through the doors. In this case, they seem to believe that embracing the familiar phrase brings a sense of warmth, nostalgia, and clarity to the season—something people might be craving more than ever.

Shoppers are encouraged to participate in the same spirit. The article pushes the idea that if stores are going all-in on “Merry Christmas,” customers shouldn’t hesitate to say it back. The message is simple: join the atmosphere, enjoy the tradition, and don’t shy away from a greeting that once defined December across the country.

What’s interesting is how this shift fits into the broader landscape of holiday retail culture. For years, companies tried to be careful—sometimes overly careful—with their language during the holiday season. The goal was to avoid alienating anyone, especially in an increasingly diverse and hypersensitive marketplace. “Happy Holidays” offered safety. It covered Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, New Year’s, and any other celebrations packed into winter months. But that neutrality also softened the identity of the season. For many customers, “Happy Holidays” didn’t feel wrong—it just didn’t feel personal.

Retail thrives on sentiment. People spend more when they feel something—nostalgia, warmth, connection, tradition. Christmas, for better or worse, is a brand in itself, and these companies are leaning into that brand again. Not in a political sense, not in a divisive sense, but in a way that re-centers December around the imagery, language, and emotional cues that once dominated store windows, commercials, and customer interactions.

Hobby Lobby and Bass Pro Shops were already known for maintaining a strong Christmas identity, but others on the list—like Nordstrom and Macy’s—spent recent years focusing more on inclusive messaging. Seeing them return to “Merry Christmas” suggests they’re responding to customer feedback or tracking a cultural moment that has been building quietly. People seem to want stronger anchors, stronger traditions, and brands that aren’t afraid to commit to something specific instead of trying to please every audience at once.

Retailers aren’t naïve. They understand that greeting choices can become flashpoints, especially in the age of social media. But they also know the holiday season is their biggest financial engine of the year, and emotional tone matters. If their customers want the full Christmas experience, right down to the phrasing used at checkout, they’re willing to deliver it.

Inside the stores, this shift is already visible. Decorations lean more heavily into classic reds, greens, golds, and winter themes that center Christmas imagery. Ad campaigns use language that’s more direct, nostalgic, and reminiscent of older holiday marketing. Sales associates are instructed to greet customers with “Merry Christmas,” and the stores’ soundtracks reinforce the theme with traditional Christmas music and familiar carols.

Online, the messaging mirrors the in-store experience. Websites display holiday banners that explicitly reference Christmas rather than broad winter themes. Social media posts lean into Christmas-oriented promotions. Email campaigns make it clear they’re celebrating the season with its traditional name.

This doesn’t mean the other winter holidays are being erased or dismissed. It simply means the companies are choosing to highlight the holiday that drives the largest share of seasonal spending and holds the strongest cultural presence in the retail landscape. They’re prioritizing clarity over neutrality, specificity over generalized cheer.

For customers who grew up hearing “Merry Christmas” at every store counter, this shift feels familiar and comforting. For those who prefer broader greetings, nothing stops them from choosing whatever wording feels right. But the message from the retailers is unmistakable: they’re stepping back into a tradition that shaped their busiest season long before marketing departments leaned into generic phrasing.

The article encourages shoppers to embrace the greeting as part of the atmosphere. “Wherever you shop this Christmas, don’t hesitate to spread the cheer by saying ‘Merry Christmas.’” It’s a call for customers to match the tone retailers are setting, reinforcing a shared cultural moment and re-establishing a seasonal identity that had been diluted over time.

Whether people see this shift as refreshing, nostalgic, unnecessary, or overdue, it signals something real. Retailers are recalibrating. They’re acknowledging that tradition still has power, that specific language still carries meaning, and that customers respond to seasonal cues that feel authentic rather than sanitized.

This movement among the ten major stores could also prompt others to follow. Retail is competitive. When one group leans heavily into a theme—especially a theme tied to emotional spending—others pay attention. If these companies see strong customer engagement or improved seasonal sales tied to the return of “Merry Christmas,” expect more brands to embrace the same messaging next year.

The broader takeaway is straightforward: major retailers are betting that shoppers want a holiday season that feels like a holiday season—not a corporate winter blur. They’re betting people want familiarity, warmth, and a little bit of old-school Christmas spirit. And they’re shaping their messaging to deliver exactly that.

For now, these ten retailers are standing out, making a clear statement about the kind of holiday experience they want to create. They’re not hiding behind generic greetings anymore. They’re choosing a direction, owning it, and inviting customers to join the moment. And as December unfolds, shoppers will decide whether that choice resonates—one “Merry Christmas” at a time.

The North Portico carried all the weight of holiday tradition on November 24, 2025, but the massive 18½-foot Christmas tree rolling up to the White House wasn’t what stole the moment. All eyes shifted toward the woman waiting to greet it. Melania Trump stepped into the spotlight with her signature calm composure, marking her seasonal return to Washington as she welcomed the official White House Christmas tree. The ceremony was meant to kick off the holidays with charm and nostalgia, but online, the conversation veered instantly toward something else entirely—her outfit.

The tree itself was a showpiece, a towering Michigan-grown fir from Korson’s Tree Farms. It arrived the old-fashioned way: perched on a horse-drawn carriage pulled by two Clydesdales named Logan and Ben. A military band played while three men dressed in vintage suits and top hats guided the procession. The scene was crafted to look timeless, a deliberate nod to Americana, tradition, and the kind of Christmas presentation presidents have staged for decades.

Melania stood at the steps of the North Portico to accept the tree, offering a brief assessment—“a beautiful tree”—before posing for photographers. It was routine, ceremonial, expected. But while the fir was slated for the Blue Room, the cameras lingered on Melania. Not the tree.

Her winter-white Dior coat, immaculate and structured, immediately stole the show. She paired it with vivid red leather gloves and tartan Manolo Blahnik stilettos—a combination that leaned into the holiday palette without slipping into costume territory. The look was icy, sharp, meticulously curated. And the internet reacted exactly as expected: instantly and loudly.

Within minutes, social media erupted with commentary. Some users mocked the coat’s silhouette, comparing it to a bathrobe or a robe-like pajama ensemble cinched at the waist. “She wore her pajama robe,” one person joked. Another commented, “White bathrobe and red rubber gloves,” taking aim at the contrast of the bright gloves against the clean white coat. Critics, as always, came ready.

But admiration poured in as well. Fashion watchers praised her for leaning into Christmas colors with precision. “Melania is rockin’ her plaid stilettos ♥️,” one fan posted, zooming in on the shoes that have become a signature part of her public style. Another user commented, “She has the best shoes. Every. Time.” Others went beyond wardrobe, complimenting the entire presence she projected. “She is beautiful and sophisticated. Poise and gracefulness,” wrote one admirer. “Elegance is back in the White House,” another added, echoing a sentiment that often circles her public appearances.

The coat wasn’t the only striking part of the day. Melania debuted fresh, lighter hair—something noticeable even from a distance. Her coloring change didn’t go unnoticed by professionals, who analyzed it with a level of attention usually reserved for celebrity transformations. Suzie McGill, artistic director at Rainbow Room International, highlighted the “vibrant, lighter shade,” describing it as a polished update that brightened Melania’s complexion while softening her overall appearance. The effect, McGill said, brought warmth without sacrificing the former First Lady’s trademark sleek elegance.

Kirsty Judge of the Rush Artistic Team labeled the look “cinnamon blonde,” a blend that combined warm beige undertones with an acorn base, eventually lifted through vanilla-blonde highlights. According to Judge, the layering created dimension and radiance—something subtle yet striking in the November light.

But even the most carefully planned appearance can’t outrun a person’s history. Alongside the admiration and criticism came reminders of Melania’s past controversies. Her 2025 Christmas ceremony unearthed public memory of the recordings released in 2020 on Anderson Cooper 360—audio captured by her former friend and adviser Stephanie Winston Wolkoff. The tapes, secretly recorded in 2018, showcased Melania sounding worn down and fed up during an intense period in Donald Trump’s first term.

“I’m working… my [expletive] off on the Christmas stuff… who gives a [expletive] about the Christmas stuff and decorations?” she said in one clip, venting about the public expectations placed on her while juggling policy controversies swirling around her husband’s administration.

Another part of the recording addressed the backlash over family separation policies, with Melania expressing frustration over what she saw as inconsistent reactions from the public compared to previous administrations.

The resurfacing of these moments reignited discussions about the fallout between Melania and Wolkoff. Once viewed as close confidantes, their relationship fractured dramatically. Wolkoff went on to publish her memoir, Melania and Me, pulling back the curtain on their friendship, the behind-the-scenes operations of the East Wing, and her observations of the Trump marriage itself. The memoir didn’t only offer insights—it reopened questions, accusations, and media debates.

Stephanie Grisham, the former White House press secretary and chief of staff to the First Lady, condemned Wolkoff’s recordings at the time, calling them an act of betrayal. She argued that Wolkoff sought attention and violated confidentiality agreements to position herself as a key insider. Meanwhile, the memoir also reexamined the 2017 inauguration, where Wolkoff’s event-planning firm received more than $26 million for various activities—money that later became part of broader inquiries into inaugural spending, including $1.6 million routed directly to her company.

Still, despite the old controversies and renewed chatter, Melania’s appearance at the 2025 tree ceremony marked a return to the public scene with controlled confidence. She didn’t address the past. She didn’t react to criticism. She didn’t give the moment anything other than what the ceremony required: presence, poise, and tightly managed elegance.

The contrast between the cheerful Christmas tradition unfolding at the White House and the often-chaotic noise surrounding Melania’s public image couldn’t have been sharper. Yet she stood on the North Portico without any visible tension, greeting the season’s most symbolic decoration like someone who has learned not only to withstand scrutiny but to treat it as background static.

The 18½-foot fir will take its place inside the Blue Room, decorated and admired by visitors, photographed endlessly throughout December. But long after the ornaments come down, the ceremony will be remembered less for the tree and more for the woman who greeted it in winter white and red leather—once again sparking debate, praise, criticism, admiration, and everything in between.

For better or worse, the holiday tradition continues. And so does the public fascination with Melania Trump.

Most people dream, though many don’t remember the details by the time they wake up. Whether dreams carry real meaning has been argued forever. Some insist dreams are a form of communication from forces we don’t consciously perceive. Others say they’re nothing more than the brain firing off signals in the dark. Scientists point to neural activity, while cultural traditions point to spiritual interpretation. But when someone who has passed away appears in your dream, the experience tends to feel different—heavier, more symbolic, and often unforgettable.

While we sleep, our brains don’t shut off. They work nonstop, processing the day, filing memories, sorting emotions, and stirring up imagery that can feel random or deeply personal. Sometimes dreams echo daily events. Other times, they drag up fears, unresolved feelings, or things we tried to ignore while awake. But dreaming of a deceased person has a unique emotional weight, almost as if the dream is reflecting a transition happening within us.

According to Healthline, dreams of the dead often appear during periods of change—new jobs, moves, relationship shifts, major life decisions. These dreams act like internal mirrors, showing us how we’re handling transformation. It’s less about the dead and more about ourselves. The emotional tone of the dream often says more than the dream’s storyline. How we feel upon waking—comforted, shaken, guilty, peaceful—usually hints at the message our mind is trying to deliver.

Psychologist Rubin Naiman, who has spent years studying sleep, argues that interpreting dreams helps expand our awareness and offers psychological insight. He views dreaming as an extension of consciousness, not a meaningless nighttime glitch. Even though some neuroscientists claim dreams come from the brain “kicking up dust” during REM sleep, Naiman and others believe dreaming holds substance and depth. Cultures like the Indigenous Australians treat dreaming as an essential part of spiritual life, suggesting that not all dreams are created equal.

Dream experts tend to group dreams about deceased individuals into four categories:

The first interpretation is straightforward grief processing. When someone we love dies, the emotional wound doesn’t heal in a linear way. The mind revisits what it misses. It brings the person back into our world temporarily so we can feel what we’re not ready to let go of during the day. These dreams often carry sadness or longing, and they surface especially early in the grieving process.

A second interpretation points to unresolved guilt or unfinished conversations. If there were things left unsaid—or forgiveness never exchanged—the deceased might appear in dreams as the mind’s attempt to confront that lingering weight. The dream becomes a space where the emotional backlog finally gets acknowledged.

A third perspective comes from dream analyst Lauri Loewenberg, who suggests that sometimes the deceased shows up as a symbol rather than a literal representation. If the person struggled with something—addiction, anger, fear—and we see those traits in ourselves, the dream may be our brain warning us about repeating their patterns. In this case, the deceased isn’t delivering a message; the dream is holding up a mirror.

The fourth category is the most spiritual: visitation dreams. Many believe that when the dead appear healthy, peaceful, and well-dressed, especially if the dream leaves us feeling calm or uplifted, the encounter is more than symbolic. In these dreams, the person doesn’t appear sick or distressed like they may have been before death. Instead, they show up as a restored version of themselves, offering reassurance, a silent greeting, or a subtle farewell. People often wake from these dreams with an unexplainable sense of warmth or closure.

Regardless of which interpretation resonates most, dreams of those who have passed away often leave a deeper imprint than ordinary dreams. They stir emotions we’ve tucked away, open wounds we didn’t realize were still raw, or offer comfort we didn’t know we needed. They bridge memory, emotion, and something that feels almost otherworldly, all in one moment.

Even those who view dreams as random imagery admit that dreams involving deceased loved ones tend to hit differently. They force reflection. They highlight areas of our life where we may be changing, struggling, or growing. They bring forward connections we thought time had buried. And for many people, they serve as a quiet reminder that grief doesn’t run on a schedule and love doesn’t simply vanish.

No matter how we interpret them—psychological, symbolic, emotional, or spiritual—these dreams tend to reveal what’s happening inside us. They help us understand ourselves a little better, whether by confronting guilt, soothing pain, or reaffirming our bond with the person we’ve lost. They carry meaning because we attach meaning to the people who appear in them.

For some, these dreams feel like a soft touch from the past. For others, they feel like unfinished business resurfacing. For many, they’re simply glimpses of what the heart hasn’t fully processed. But they all remind us of the same truth: the people who shape us don’t disappear just because they’re gone. They linger in memory, emotion, and sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, in our dreams.