Then, as if the universe wanted to drive the point home, I got a call from my dad. He doesn’t usually call on his own. It’s almost always my mom or Carol, so my stomach sank as soon as I saw his name.
“Hey, Dad,” I said cautiously.
“Edward,” he said. His tone was almost business-like. “I just wanted to remind you tonight’s important. Don’t make a scene.”
“A scene?” I said, my voice cracking slightly. “Why would I make a scene?”
He sighed. “Just keep your cool. You tend to get defensive, and we don’t want any drama this year.”
I bit back a 100 responses and finally said, “Got it. No drama.”
But the call left me rattled. Why was he warning me not to get defensive unless they knew I’d have a reason to be?
By late afternoon, my house looked perfect. Candles on the mantle, table set with the good china, food warm in the oven. And yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was some sort of stage they were walking into. And I was the unwilling main act.
The first to arrive was my stepmom, Carol. She walked in with a smug smile and didn’t even bother to say hello before heading straight to the kitchen.
“M,” she said, lifting the lid off one of my serving dishes. “Smells good. At least you got this part right.”
“This part?” I asked.
“Oh, you know what I mean?” she said with a wave of her hand, already pulling out her phone to snap pictures of the table. “The food. You always do that. Well, it’s the rest of it that we’ll see about.”
I stood frozen for a moment, holding the carving knife in my hand before finally saying, “Glad you approve.”
The next few arrivals were similar. Cousins whispering and snickering in the hallway. My aunt winking at me and saying, “Oh, tonight’s going to be memorable.”
My mom arrived last carrying a pie, looking flushed and excited.
“Everything ready?” she asked, scanning the table.
“Yeah,” I said flatly.
“Perfect,” she said. “Let’s eat. Then we can get to the good part.”
“The good part?”
I felt my pulse quicken.
As everyone sat down, I took my usual seat at the end of the table, carving knife in hand. Usually, this is my favorite moment of the whole year. Everyone quieting down, bowing their heads for grace, waiting for me to slice into the turkey. But this time, I could barely breathe.
Mom cleared her throat dramatically.
“Before we dig in,” she said, “I just want to say how proud I am that we’re all here together this year, and I think tonight will bring us even closer as a family.”
Everyone nodded and smiled. Everyone except me.
Then she looked straight at me and said, “Edward, why don’t you start carving? We don’t want to keep everyone waiting.”
I stood, knife poised over the turkey, but something in her tone made me pause. I could feel every eye in the room on me.
And that’s when I heard Clare mutter just loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Oh, this is going to be so good.”
I swear when Clare muttered those words, it felt like the room got smaller. I could feel heat crawling up my neck. My hand tightened around the carving knife until my knuckles turned white. I forced myself to smile. The same smile I’ve worn at every Thanksgiving for years. The one that says, “I can take a joke. I can laugh along.”
But this time, something in me already knew. This wasn’t going to be just a joke.
I sliced the first piece of turkey, laying it neatly on the serving platter. And as I did, I caught my mom exchanging a quick look with Carol. It was just a split second, a nod, the kind you’d miss if you weren’t watching, but I was watching.
Dinner started as usual. People passed around dishes, poured wine, complimented the food. For a brief moment, I almost let myself believe that maybe I had imagined it all. Maybe I was just paranoid. Maybe tonight would be like every other year, full of bickering and laughter and too much pie.
But then my mom cleared her throat again.
“So,” she said, setting down her fork and smiling broadly. “Before we get too full and sleepy, we have a little surprise.”
The table quieted.
Carol clasped her hands together. “Yes, we’ve been waiting all week for this.”
Clare leaned back in her chair, smirking. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”
I put my fork down slowly, my appetite gone.