Elena first, perfectly composed, divorced again, but framing it as a reinvention. Bianca right behind her, phone still in hand, some man with a name lighting up the screen. They lookexpensive, bored, and faintly irritated by the effort of being present.
They kiss my father’s cheeks like little girls again, all softness and nostalgia.
“Daddy,” Elena says, lingering on the word.
He smiles, relieved, like the sound steadies him.
Dinner begins with soup, poured tableside. Roasted garlic broth with thyme and a Parmesan rind. Elena leans back to watch it like it’s entertainment.
“Oh, good,” she murmurs. “Something light. I hate when Thanksgiving feels… heavy.”
Bianca nods. “God, remember when it was all just dumped on the table?”
“Family style,” Elena wrinkles her nose.
Before consequences,I think.
My father lifts his spoon carefully, tastes, and nods. “This is very good.”
I exhale a fraction.
Good day. Still.
The salad arrives next. Pears and burrata spaced out on wide plates, nothing touching, like abundance isn’t the point. Order is.
The same exact food that was served at Claudia and Deacons dinner, aside from the soup. Rich people food. I want freaking pizza.
Elena tilts her head at it. “It’s almost too pretty to eat.”
Bianca smirks. “That’s how you know it’s expensive.”
They both glance at me.
“So,” Elena says, cutting into a pear, “are you still running around with that hockey crowd?”
I keep my eyes on my plate. “Some of the time.”
She hums. “I just worry. Athletes are so… transient. And the women.” She smiles sweetly. “Very enthusiastic.”
Puck bunny, without saying puck bunny.
Bianca laughs. “I saw one of her girls online. Or maybe it was a fan account. Hard to tell. A proposal?”
“You mean Deacon Moretti whose played in the league for years and is highly respected and Claudia,Doctor Claudia Holloway? That was very real.” I stab a pear, shove it in my mouth, and chew.
My father frowns faintly. “Now, girls.”
“Oh, we’re teasing,” Elena says, touching his arm. “She knows we love her.”
Love, like a technicality.
The main course lands: turkey carved clean, potatoes not as smooth as The Bridgeview’s, which is perfect because it’s not perfect.
My father tells a story about an early Thanksgiving in Connecticut, before their mothers and my father’s divorce, before my mother, before me, before New York. I’ve heard it twice this week. Elena laughs like it’s brand new. Bianca interrupts to correct a date that doesn’t matter.
He recovers easily. Laughs. Waves her off.
Good day.
