Thanksgiving was supposed to be loud, messy, full of mismatched conversations and clattering dishes — the kind of chaos that made the holiday feel warm, even if imperfect. But that year, the table felt colder, sharper, almost rehearsed. My family had always operated like a well-oiled performance, each person holding their assigned role: my mother the polished hostess, my father the charismatic patriarch, my brother Jason the golden favorite. And me — the quiet one who learned long ago to smooth the edges, say less, tolerate more.
This time, though, something snapped.
It happened so quickly I almost questioned my memory later. The plates were being passed around, the conversations shallow but strangely bright, the kind of brightness that hides the cracks. My eight-year-old daughter Lily sat beside me, swinging her legs, excited about the mashed potatoes she’d been talking about all week.
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