Chapter 22 - ANOTHER THANKSGIVING
Evan was twenty-eight when he hosted Thanksgiving.
He invited:
Me.
Daniel.
His partner Anna.
Two friends.
Grace Nolan, now retired.
No formal Bennett table.
No place cards.
Evan roasted chicken instead of turkey deliberately.
“Too obvious?” he asked.
“Extremely.”
He served everyone.
Then sat.
A friend reached for a thigh before the blessing.
Evan slapped the table dramatically.
Everyone froze.
Then he grinned.
“Kidding.”
I glared.
He apologized immediately.
“Bad joke.”
“Yes.”
He removed the joke from the rest of the evening.
That mattered.
Humor around trauma required consent too.
Later, Anna asked privately whether I minded the chicken.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because food belongs to the meal now.”
That sentence surprised me.
For years, roasted chicken had been evidence.
Now it smelled like rosemary.
Evan ate two pieces.
Left half of one.
May you like
No one commented.
Freedom can look like waste.
