Chapter 8 - Thanksgiving Still Happened Without Diane’s Permission
Rebecca asked:
“What do we do tomorrow?”
I looked at Lily.
She was coloring on hotel stationery.
“What does everyone already have?”
“Turkey is at Mom’s.”
“I paid for it.”
Rebecca almost smiled.
“Technically.”
“Do you want to go there?”
She thought.
“No.”
That answer surprised both of us.
So Thanksgiving moved.
Not dramatically.
Rebecca’s apartment was too small for:
all of us comfortably,
but enough for:
two sisters,
three girls,
some folding chairs.
Matt dropped Rebecca’s daughters off at noon.
Lily wore pajamas because I had promised.
We bought:
another turkey breast,
mashed potatoes,
green beans,
a supermarket pie.
No expensive wine.
No Dad’s dining table.
No perfect tradition.
It was the best Thanksgiving I had experienced in years.
Rebecca’s older daughter asked:
“Where’s Grandma?”
Rebecca answered:
“She’s having a quiet day.”
Good.
No child needed:
adult details.
Diane called both of us repeatedly.
Neither answered during dinner.
At six, she texted:
You two have ruined your father’s holiday.
I read it.
Then put my phone face down.
Rebecca looked at me.
“Does that still work on you?”
“Yes.”
“Me too.”
We laughed.
Not because funny.
Because sometimes recognizing a weapon reduces:
May you like
its power.
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