By two o’clock, we were all seated around the dining room table with Jim at the head, Ellen to his right, Bash and I across from each other in an arrangement that felt both intimate and carefully orchestrated to avoid too much intimacy. The table all but groaned under the weight of food. The focus here was not on presentation—though we were using their good china, from what Ellen had told me—but on home-cooked food. It wasn’t plated to perfection but all prepared with love.
And butter. Loads and loads of butter.
“Gregory, would you mind if we said grace before we eat?” Jim asked. “It’s a family tradition.”
“Of course not.” I bowed my head as the family joined hands. The gesture felt natural, comfortable, and was genuinely moved by the simple ritual.
“Lord, we thank you for the bounty before us, for family gathered around this table, and for the safe return of our son,” Jim spoke, his voice steady and warm. “We’re grateful for new friends who’ve joined us today, and we ask that you watch over those who can’t be with us.”
A pause, heavy with unspoken reference to Glenn.
“We’re thankful for the service of all who’ve worn the uniform, for those who continue to serve, and for the freedoms they protect. Amen.”
“Amen,” we echoed, and Ellen immediately began the complex choreography of passing dishes and serving portions that could’ve fed several people each.
The food was extraordinary—rich and flavorful in ways I hadn’t expected, each dish representing some aspect of American comfort cooking that I’d never experienced. The turkey was perfectly moist, the stuffing savory, the green beans delicious with bacon bits and pieces of walnuts, and the sweet potatoes so much better than I could’ve hoped.
But it was more than the food; it was the atmosphere, the easy conversation, the way this family had opened their home to someone they didn’t know and yet treated like he belonged.
“So, Gregory,” Jim said, passing me the cranberry sauce, “what’s been your favorite part of the American college experience so far?”
I considered the question while spooning the tart-sweet sauce onto my plate. “The academic collaboration has been fascinating. American universities have a much more interactive approach than what I’m used to. The group projects and the classroom discussions are different from the more formal lecture-based system in Britain.”
“Bash mentioned you two did a presentation together,” Ellen said. “Something about humor in diplomacy? That sounds right up your alley.”
“It was Eddie’s idea,” Bash said quietly, the first time he’d spoken directly about me all day. “He knows more about diplomatic history than the rest of us combined.”
There was something in his tone—pride, maybe, or admiration—that made warmth flutter in my chest before I ruthlessly suppressed it.
“Well, you’d have to be pretty smart to get into Oxford,” Jim observed. “That’s quite an achievement.”
“I was fortunate to have excellent preparation,” I replied diplomatically, not mentioning that royal connections might’ve played a role in my admission alongside academic merit.
The conversation continued through the meal, touching on everything from American football—which I was gradually beginning to understand—to the differences between British and American television. Ellen asked thoughtful questions about my impressions of America, while Jim shared stories about his own limited travels during his military service. Bash participated but remained aloof in addressing me, contributing enough to avoid seeming distant but never allowing the conversation to become too personal.
It should’ve been perfect, this warm family meal, the incredible food, the genuine hospitality. And in many ways, it was. But underneath the pleasant conversation and comfortable atmosphere, I was acutely aware of the performance I was giving, the way I was holding myself at a careful distance from these people who were trying so hard to make me feel welcome.
Just like Bash was holding himself at a distance from me.
After dinner, we moved to the living room for what Ellen insisted was the most important Thanksgiving tradition: falling asleep watching football while complaining about being too full to move. Ellen settled into the recliner with a satisfied groan, while Jim started the job of collecting plates. “She cooks, I do cleanup,” he said with a warm smile to his wife.
“Can I give you a hand?” I asked, but Jim firmly shook his head.
“You’ve helped enough. You sit and enjoy being overfed and lazy.”
So I settled on the couch next to Bash, both of us supposedly watching a game between two teams I couldn’t identify, while the afternoon sunlight slanted through the windows and the comfortable sounds of a family holiday settled around us. Bash was careful to maintain space between us, his attention focused on the television screen with the kind of concentration that suggested he was working very hard not to look at me.
“The food was extraordinary,” I said to Ellen. “I’ve never experienced anything quite like it.”
“Oh, you’re just being polite,” she said, but she looked pleased. “Though I do make a decent turkey, if I say so myself.”
“Mama’s being modest,” Bash said. “She’s won the church cooking contest three years running.”
“Hush, you. Gregory doesn’t need to hear about my competitive streak.”
“On the contrary, I find it quite admirable,” I said. “Passion for one’s craft should be celebrated, whether it’s cooking or anything else.”
I felt Bash’s eyes on me as I spoke, and when I glanced in his direction, there was something almost puzzled in his expression, like he was trying to figure out why I sounded so formal, so carefully polite.
