Chapter 9 - A Seat at the TableThanksgiving that year was nothing like the barbecue where everything had broken apart.
We didn't rent a banquet hall or stress over elaborate centerpieces. We stayed right here in my apartment. The dining table was covered in a warm yellow cloth, smelling of roasted turkey, homemade cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie.
Aunt Colleen was there, laughing as she helped my father carve the turkey. Dany was sitting in his booster seat right next to his grandfather, proudly wearing a paper pilgrim hat he had made at preschool.
There were no plastic plates. There were no hidden cruelties. There was no hierarchy of affection.
As we all joined hands around the table to say what we were grateful for, my father looked around the circle with clear, lucid eyes. He squeezed my hand tightly, his fingers warm and steady.
“I’m thankful,” my father said, his voice stronger than it had been in months, “for second chances. And for daughters who know the difference between a bloodline and a bond.”
Dany clapped his hands enthusiastically, shouting, “Me too!”
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We ate until we were full, shared stories that made us cry with laughter, and didn't look backward once. For the first time in my life, I didn't feel like I was earning my place at the table.
I belonged there. We all did.
