Thanksgiving has always been an awkward balancing act in our family—a yearly performance where everyone smiles too wide, drinks too much boxed wine, and pretends that years of subtle resentment can be smothered under gravy and cranberry sauce.
Every year felt like walking into a theater where the script never changed: Mom in the starring role of Gracious Hostess, Madison as the golden girl everyone adored, the relatives as the chorus of noisy approval. And me? I was the stagehand in the dark, making sure the lights stayed on and the food didn’t burn, never meant to be seen, only useful so long as I didn’t step into the spotlight.
If our family had a tradition, it wasn’t the turkey recipe or the cranberry sauce.
It was swallowing what hurt and smiling like it tasted sweet.
But this one—this particular Thanksgiving—felt different.
From the second I stepped into the house, there was this electric, artificial cheer in the air.
Something brittle in the way everyone greeted each other, like the happiness was too rehearsed, too practiced, like someone was hiding a surprise behind their back and barely keeping it together.
And they were. They absolutely were.
I should have seen it coming.
I should have noticed the way my mom kept glancing toward Madison like she was a child holding on to a secret she couldn’t wait to spill. The way Madison kept adjusting her hair, her ring finger flashing more than usual, tapping her wine glass with little flourishes like she needed us to notice her hand.
But I was distracted, I guess.
Already tired before the turkey hit the table.
Already worn down by the performance I knew I’d have to give.
I didn’t expect it to sting the way it did, though.
Not when she stood up mid-dinner, cleared her throat like she was about to deliver the State of the Union, and held out her left hand like it was some kind of golden trophy.
“I have an announcement,” Madison said, beaming so hard I thought her face might crack from the effort. “Ryan and I are engaged.”
For a moment everything in the room just froze. Forks paused.
Glasses hung halfway to mouths.
The air seemed to suck itself right out of the room. It was like time stalled just long enough for everyone to turn and look at me—just a flicker, just a heartbeat, but long enough to burn itself into my memory.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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