He was seven.
Funny, curious, obsessed with dinosaurs and grilled cheese sandwiches.
None of this involved him.
His photographs filled my home.
For a while, I considered apologizing just to see him.
Then I imagined what the apology would mean.
I’m sorry I stopped paying your parents after they told me to disappear.
No.
I would not teach my grandson that love meant accepting any condition imposed by whoever controlled access to him.
So I waited.
Then Thanksgiving approached.
For five years, I had hosted.
I bought the turkey.
Made Michael’s mother’s stuffing.
Prepared sweet potatoes, green beans, rolls, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, gravy, and two pies.
Sarah complained when I bought an ordinary turkey instead of the organic one she preferred.
David watched football.
Sarah photographed the table.
Afterward, I packed leftovers for them and washed almost every dish.
I once loved hosting.
At some point, tradition had turned into labor everyone assumed would simply appear.
A week before Thanksgiving, Sarah emailed.
I nearly deleted it.
Then opened it.
Mom,
David’s parents are coming this year, so we’re hosting at our house. Since you already know how everyone likes the turkey and sides, can you make the usual meal and bring it over around 2:00? We want to keep the dinner small with David’s parents, so you don’t need to stay, but it would help us a lot if you could drop everything at the kitchen door.
Thanks.
I stared at the screen.
Then reread it to make sure I had understood.
They wanted the meal.
Not me.
I wasn’t invited to sit with them.
But I was expected to buy, prepare, transport, and quietly deliver Thanksgiving dinner.
The old Amber would have cried.
Then gone grocery shopping.
