Even when relatives promised to bring food, I made backups because I’d trained myself to believe their failure automatically became my responsibility.
Not this year.
I seasoned the turkey.
Washed the greens.
Then read a novel for two hours.
Thanksgiving afternoon arrived cold and bright.
At exactly two, David’s sedan pulled into my driveway, followed by Brenda’s SUV.
Rachel entered first with Mia.
Brenda followed in an expensive fur-trimmed coat.
David carried one bottle of cheap wine.
Nobody carried food.
Not one casserole.
No pie.
No potatoes.
No stuffing.
Rachel
