Thanksgiving at my mother’s place in New Jersey had always been more performance than holiday. Her split‑level colonial at the end of the cul‑de‑sac looked like it had been ripped straight out of a real‑estate brochure: white siding, dark green shutters, a perfectly trimmed lawn that my brother used to mow for twenty bucks when we were teenagers. An American flag still hung neatly by the door from Veterans Day, and she’d added a wreath with fake autumn leaves and tiny plastic pumpkins, because “it’s festive.”
By the time I pulled into the driveway, the November sky was already sliding toward that cold, steel gray that swallows East Coast suburbs by late afternoon.
A thin line of smoke curled from a neighbor’s chimney, and somewhere down the block, kids shouted as they tossed a football back and forth in the street.
Inside, the house was warm and crowded and loud in all the familiar ways.
It smelled like roasted turkey, buttered dinner rolls, canned cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie from the grocery store bakery.
My mother loved to pretend she’d made everything from scratch, but the little plastic containers in the trash always told the truth.
A pumpkin‑spice candle burned aggressively on the sideboard because some lifestyle blog had told her it made a home feel “inviting.” The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade rerun flickered on the living room TV, the floats and performers now mostly for background as the afternoon NFL game took over.
Commentators shouted about yardage and penalties from the flat‑screen while my uncle half‑watched, half‑dozed on the couch.
And, as always, the script was the same: Mark was the star.
My brother sat at the head of the dining table like a king at the end of a long banquet.
He had that easy, practiced smirk plastered on his face, one arm slung over the back of the chair beside him, tie loosened just enough to say, “I’m successful, but laid back.”
He’d been wearing some version of that expression since high school, back when the whole town showed up for Friday night football games under the bright stadium lights.
He was the starting quarterback, the one whose name the announcer dragged out for dramatic effect.
I still remember the way my mother used to scream from the bleachers, hands cupped around her mouth, face flushed with pride.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
TAP → NEXT PAGE → 👇
