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.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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