Chapter 22 - LILY’S FIRST THANKSGIVING
At thirty-two, Lily hosted Thanksgiving herself.
Her apartment was too small for the table she wanted, so she rented folding chairs.
Guests included:
Me.
Samuel.
Mark.
Lily’s partner, Andrew.
Two friends.
No ceremonial family hierarchy.
She cooked badly.
The turkey dried out.
The mashed potatoes became glue.
Everyone ate anyway.
At one point, Andrew’s nephew reached across the table and knocked over cranberry sauce.
The red bowl tipped onto Lily’s white tablecloth.
The child froze.
His mother inhaled sharply.
Lily looked at the stain.
Then at the boy.
“Want a towel?”
He nodded.
That was all.
Mark looked down.
I knew what he was remembering.
Lily saw him.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
He was crying.
She handed him a napkin.
No speech.
No family reckoning.
The table simply continued.
Later, Lily pulled me into the kitchen.
“Were you scared?”
“When the bowl fell?”
“Yes.”
“For half a second.”
“Me too.”
“We still have bodies.”
She laughed.
“Very therapist of you.”
“Occupational contamination from twenty years of Dr. Chen.”
Dr. Chen had retired long ago.
Her work remained inside our pauses.
Lily had chosen not to have children yet.
She might.
Might not.
No family trust required heirs.
No Peterson legacy required continuation.
Mark left early because he had work the next morning.
He hugged Lily after asking.
Samuel washed dishes.
I stood at the sink watching my adult daughter scrape cranberry sauce into the trash.
The color resembled the red mark on her cheek in my oldest memory of that Thanksgiving.
I did not tell her.
May you like
She had enough ownership of the day.
The past did not need to announce itself every time a color returned.
