Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
“Dad,” I say sternly.
“It’s okay,” Riley interjects. “I don’t have a family, Thanksgiving or otherwise, so I’m very appreciative of the invitation to join yours this year.”
Dad flinches and looks to Mom for help. She glares back at him like ‘I tried to tell you.’ She probably did warn him, both when I sent the text and just now before they came downstairs, but it wasn’t important enough for him to remember at the time, probably because he was busy moving millions across digital 1’s and 0’s. “We’re quite glad to have you join us,” Mom says, smoothing the awkwardness the way she’s so gifted at doing. “Let’s dig in before it gets cold.”
She grabs the closest platter and begins passing it without taking even a single scoop. She won’t serve herself anything until the dish has made its way around the table at least once. It’s how she is.
While we pass various vegetables and side dishes around, Dad stands to carve the turkey that’s been placed right in front of him. He always does it, but at least it’s not some big Broadway production where we’re expected to watch in silent awe while he heroically slices meat from the bone of a dinner he didn’t make. Still, Riley clutches my thigh under the table and turns platter-sized eyes at me.
“It’s just like on TV!” she whispers at me.
I can’t help but chuckle and nod along with her because she’s right. Our family table does resemble Norman Rockwell’s Freedom from Want on the surface, with its fine China, white tablecloth, and huge bird center stage, not to mention the generations of wealth and privilege surrounding it.
“Hurry up, Charlie,” Grandmom tells Dad. She’s the only one I’ve ever heard call Dad by the cutesy nickname he used as a child. Not even Mom would dare. “I’m not waiting all day for turkey when I’ve got the gravy right here.” She holds up a silver—real, not plated—gravy boat that is indeed filled with light tan sauce.
“Here, Mom. Take your turkey leg and hush,” Dad tells her, unceremoniously plopping a bone-in leg onto her waiting fine porcelain plate.
Yes, as wealthy and picturesque as our family might be, we’re still just… family, who irritate each other and love each other, sometimes at the same time.
Dinner goes well, with everyone chatting politely and no one asking anything too pointed of Riley and me. Mostly, I spend the whole time hyperaware of her, ignoring everyone else. Her bracelets sing the whole time she’s cutting her turkey, eating her green bean casserole, and poking the marshmallows on the sweet potatoes, and the sound makes me inordinately happy. As does her happily tapping boots beneath the table every time she tries something she particularly enjoys.
“Good?” I ask at one point. I don’t just mean the dressing. I mean with everything.
She gives me a big grin, struggling to not lose a crumb of food, and nods vehemently. I can’t help but chuckle at how adorable she is.
We talked about this last night on the patio, when she revealed she’s never been to a real traditional family Thanksgiving before. She had holidays in some of her foster placements, but more than once, she was taken to what amounted to a daycare center for the day so her foster parents could celebrate with their actual family. She claimed to have understood, especially when feeding extra mouths was already hard, and appreciated the work that went into entertaining a roomful of mostly forgotten kids, but I could tell it hurt her to not be included. Other years, when she did get to go with her foster family, she still felt like an outsider who was mostly unwanted there. She did have happy memories from one Thanksgiving meal, a barbecue held by one extended family, which by Riley’s own report was delicious, but not the same feeling as traditional holiday fare around a big table with people you love.
And with people who love you.
It hits me just how fortunate I am. I mean, I know I’m well-off, but I’m not thinking about that type of fortune. I’m blessed in a much less tangible way, with siblings and parents who love me in their own perfectly imperfect ways. I’d like to think I return the favor to them too.
And I’m extremely thankful to have Riley at my side today, because she is very much wanted here.
After dinner, Mom and Grandmom disappear into the kitchen to cut the pies, and Grandmom yells out, “Kyle Harrington! You little scoundrel! When did you get into my apple pie?”
Kyle looks just as shocked as the rest of us, stuttering, “I didn’t do—” A second later, he backhands Cole’s bicep, and thankfully, it’s the opposite arm from where he’s holding Emmett on his knee or Kyle would be a dead man. “You asshole. You knew she’d blame me.”