My son was standing there holding a basket of rolls he baked himself when my sister looked over the table and said, “Your son can’t sit at the adult table.”
It was Thanksgiving at her house. Eight chairs around a long farmhouse table with a white runner and those little fake pumpkins. Place cards for everyone in cursive.
My name, my boyfriend’s name, my parents, my sister’s husband. Her daughter’s name was tucked right next to Grandpa. Her daughter is 12.
My son, Max, is 13. “He’s 13,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. He’s taller than me.
Kelsey didn’t look at me. She flicked her eyes at the booster seat at the kids table in the den. “He’s 13,” she repeated.
“That’s still a kid. The adult table is tight. You know, we do this every year.”
One of the cousins—13, but from Kelsey’s husband’s side—snickered and slid in closer between my dad and Kelsey’s daughter.
A chair had been taken out to make more room. There was literally no space left. My dad patted the chair next to him that wasn’t there and shrugged like, What can you do?
Max hugged the basket to his chest. He had put sea salt on the tops and everything. He’d worn a collared shirt because he knows my mom likes nice photos.
The kids table in the den was a folding card table with plastic plates and a stack of paper napkins that said gobble. Three toddlers were already smearing cranberry sauce there. A TV was on low.
You could barely see the table legs because of the toy bin shoved under it. Kelsey finally turned to me. “It’s not a big deal.
He can sit with the kids. He likes Fortnite, right?”
Her daughter, 12, took a sip of sparkling cider from a glass flute and pretended not to look. I felt my hands shake.
It started in my fingertips and went up my wrists. My throat went tight, but I smiled so my cheeks wouldn’t shake, too. I glanced at Max.
He had gone red in that way he does, blotchy along the neck. He nodded once, like he wanted to be brave, and then his eyes slid toward the carpet. I heard my boyfriend Daniel taking a breath behind me.
He didn’t say anything. We’ve had this fight before in different clothes. “No problem,” I said like an automated voice.
It came out like I was asking for a receipt at a gas station. I put the rolls on the counter next to the turkey and grabbed our coats off the hallway. I helped Max slide his arms in.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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