PART 1: THE FEAST OF CRUMBS
The air in my parents’ dining room was always thick enough to choke on, a suffocating blend of roasted sage, expensive perfume, and unspoken resentments. But by the time Caroline leaned toward my son, her lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, I felt the atmosphere shift from heavy to poisonous.
My fork was already hovering over my plate, trembling slightly. My body knew what was coming before my brain acknowledged it.
“Sweetheart,” Caroline said. Her voice was pitched perfectly—loud enough to cut through the clinking of silverware and the low hum of conversation, ensuring the entire table became her audience. “Thanksgiving turkey is for family.”
Time seemed to warp. I watched, paralyzed, as she physically slid the ceramic serving platter away from Luke. It wasn’t a casual adjustment. It was a deliberate eviction. She moved the bird as if my ten-year-old son had reached for a centerpiece made of diamonds rather than a slice of dry breast meat.
The reaction was immediate and gut-wrenching. Somebody snorted. One of my uncles let out a tight, strangled chuckle—the kind of sound a coward makes when they don’t want to be the only one not laughing at the bully’s joke.
