I still remember that Thanksgiving with a clarity that refuses to fade. Some memories soften with time. This one didn’t. It stayed sharp, uncomfortable, and unexpectedly important. Growing up, Thanksgiving wasn’t a holiday in my house; it was a date on the calendar we ignored because we had no reason to celebrate it. My mom worked double shifts to keep the rent paid, and most years we’d eat whatever was cheapest and quickest. No turkey, no pie, no special anything. I used to convince myself I didn’t care, that traditions were overrated. But deep down, I always felt that familiar sting of being on the outside looking in.
In 2010, my friend Layla invited me to her family’s Thanksgiving dinner. I brushed it off at first. I told her I wouldn’t have time, that my mom needed me at home, that her family didn’t need another mouth to feed. She insisted. Layla had that way of speaking where you could tell she wasn’t offering a suggestion—she was giving you a lifeline. Eventually, I said yes, pretending it didn’t matter either way.
Walking into her house felt like crossing into a different universe. Warm rolls cooling on the counter. Turkey pulled straight from the oven. Homemade gravy simmering on the stove. Real mashed potatoes, not the powdered kind that come in a box. The entire kitchen smelled like the kind of holiday I’d only ever seen on TV. I tried to act casual, but the truth was embarrassingly simple: I had never stood in a room filled with that much food before.
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