“We are only having your sister’s family this year!”, Mom texted. I typed back: “Have a good time”.. When I refused to invite them to a grand Thanksgiving party at my house, my father broke my window and grabbed me by the throat, saying, “You think you’re better than us?” My sister had kicked me in the ribs, adding, “Some people just need to remember their place.” But …

The High Walls of Gratitude

Chapter 1: The Exile’s Palace

The message arrived on a Monday afternoon, slicing through the quiet hum of my home office like a jagged stone through glass. Outside, the November sun was turning the spray of the courtyard fountain into diamonds, a view that usually brought me peace. But as my phone vibrated against the mahogany desk, the old, familiar knot of dread tightened in my stomach.

Mom: “We’re keeping the circle tight this year. Just Madison’s crew. We need a break from the drama, so we aren’t inviting you. Have a good week.”

I stared at the screen, reading the words until they blurred. “Keeping the circle tight.” It was a polite way of saying “you are the problem.” I typed back the only response that ever seemed to de-escalate their chaos: “Understood. Have a good time.”

I didn’t ask why. I didn’t beg. I had learned decades ago that silence was the only shield that worked.

But they weren’t finished. The phone buzzed again, a synchronized assault.

Dad: “Some people just don’t fit the aesthetic of a happy holiday.”