My family knew I worked in consulting. They assumed I lived in a modest apartment somewhere and scraped by. I’d never corrected that assumption because their contempt for me had nothing to do with my actual circumstances. Madison was their golden child, married to a dentist named Chad, who came from old money.
Tyler worked at a bank and had married his high school sweetheart, Brittany. They both lived in the same town where we grew up, close to our parents. I was the odd one out because I’d left because I’d chosen a different path because I wouldn’t play their games anymore. My phone rang an hour later. It was my aunt Diane, my father’s older sister.
Rebecca, honey, did you hear about Thanksgiving? Her voice carried that familiar mixture of sympathy and frustration. I did. It’s fine, Aunt Diane. I wasn’t planning on going anyway. Your mother called me to make sure I knew Madison was hosting this year. She made it very clear that the invitation list was exclusive.
I asked her what that meant, and she said they were only having immediate family. Aunt Diane paused. I haven’t been excluded from Thanksgiving in 40 years, Rebecca. I closed my eyes. I’m sorry. Don’t you dare apologize for them. Her voice sharpened. I called your uncle Frank and he got the same treatment. So did your aunt Susan and uncle Mike.
Your mother told Susan that they were simplifying this year. An idea began forming in my mind. A delicious, satisfying idea. Aunt Diane, how would you feel about having Thanksgiving at my place this year? Your place? Honey, I don’t want you to go to any trouble. It wouldn’t be trouble. I promise. I smiled, looking out at my grounds again.
I have plenty of space. Well, if you’re sure, that would be lovely. Should I tell the others? Actually, let me reach out to everyone. I want to do this properly. Over the next two weeks, I contacted every aunt, uncle, and cousin who’d been excluded from Madison’s exclusive Thanksgiving. Aunt Diane and Uncle Frank, Aunt Susan, and Uncle Mike.
my cousins Jennifer, David, and Marcus with their families. Uncle Paul and Aunt Linda, my mother’s brother and sister-in-law who had been married for 35 years. Even my grandmother’s sister, great aunt Dorothy, who was 87 and still sharp as attack. Every single one of them said yes. I hired a catering company that specialized in high-end events.
I arranged for a photographer because I wanted to remember this day. I had the house deep cleaned and decorated with elegant fall arrangements. The dining room in my estate could seat 24 people comfortably, and I had rented additional tables for the overflow into the adjacent sitting room. Nobody in my immediate family knew where I lived.
I’d kept that information private deliberately. All my mail went to a PO box, and I’d been careful about social media. My profiles were locked down tight with privacy settings that would make a cyber security expert proud. The morning before Thanksgiving, I was overseeing the delivery of rental chairs when my phone buzzed with a message from Madison.
Madison, hope you have a nice, quiet Thanksgiving alone. Maybe you’ll finally understand that actions have consequences. I almost laughed. The projection was stunning. I’d spent my entire childhood and young adult life trying to figure out what I’d done to deserve their treatment. I was quieter than Madison, more bookish. I like different things.
I chosen a different college, a different career path, a different life. And for that, I was consistently treated as lesser than me. I’m sure I’ll have a memorable Thanksgiving. You too, Madison. We always do. Some of us know how to maintain family bonds. I didn’t respond. There was no point. Thanksgiving morning arrived cold and clear.
I woke early and did a final walkthrough of the house. The caterers would arrive at 8. My guests would start showing up around 11:00. Dinner was scheduled for 2:00 in the afternoon. I was in the kitchen going over the menu with the catering manager when my security system chimed. Someone was at the front gate. I pulled up the camera feed on my tablet and felt my stomach drop.
