Chapter 10 - The Real Feast
The year came full circle on a crisp, bright Thanksgiving afternoon.
This time, the dinner wasn't at the Elm Street house. It was at my loft. I had invited Mom, Marissa, Tyler, and Sarah. It was the first time the entire family had been under one roof since the disaster of last Christmas morning.
The kitchen speaker was playing jazz, the smell of roasted turkey and sage stuffing filled the warm apartment, and the big windows showed the Columbus skyline under a clear, blue November sky.
Mom arrived first, carrying a homemade pumpkin pie. She walked into the loft, looking around the clean, modern space with an expression that looked remarkably like pride.
"It's a beautiful place, Donald," she said, setting the pie on the counter. She turned to me, her eyes softening in a way I hadn't seen since I was a teenager. "You've done very well for yourself."
"Thanks, Mom," I said, giving her a hug. It didn't feel heavy. There was no unspoken expectation between us anymore. She was just my mother, and I was just her son.
Marissa and Tyler arrived a few minutes later. Tyler immediately ran over to the living room area where his medium-sized spaceship sat on a shelf, fully assembled, not a single piece missing.
We sat down at the large wooden dining table I had bought with my own saved money. The food was passed around, the conversation flowed easily, and nobody talked about portals, leases, or spreadsheets.
When it came time to clear the table, I stood up to grab the plates, but Tyler jumped out of his seat first.
"I got it, Uncle Donald," he said, stacking the turkey platter on top of a side dish. "I'm the master of the dishes now."
Marissa laughed, a sound that lacked any of the bitter edge it used to have. "He really is. I don't even have to ask him anymore."
I sat back down, looking across the table. Mom was talking to Sarah about a gardening project she wanted to start in the spring. Marissa was reaching for a piece of bread, looking relaxed, her face free of the constant, low-grade panic of a person living beyond their means.
They weren't wealthy. They weren't perfectly secure. But they were responsible for their own lives, and because of that, they were whole.
Marissa looked across the table at me, raising her glass of apple cider.
"To high standards," she said, a wicked, knowing smirk on her face.
May you like
I picked up my own glass, the memory of the crushed box and the cold Ohio porch fading into the warm light of the room.
"To high standards," I agreed, clinking my glass against hers. "The kind you earn."
