Family started arriving — Jason’s sister and her kids, my little brother, a couple of friends. The house filled with noise, but under it all was this weird, tense hum.
I finished the sides like a robot.
Every time Diane went near the stove, she had something to say.
“Careful with the salt. Poor people food is always too salty.”
“Are those real cranberries? How precious.”
“Don’t worry, everyone, the turkey is professionally prepared.”
She laughed. No one else did.
We finally sat down.
My mashed potatoes, my stuffing, my vegetables, my pies. Her turkey.
Diane poured wine and raised her glass.
