Chapter 8 - Thanksgiving Truths
Thanksgiving arrived with a crisp morning frost coating the windows of our home.
For the first time in twenty years, Helen was not seated at our dining room table presiding over the turkey like an autocratic queen. She had spent the holiday alone in her motel room, refusing an invitation from a distant cousin who offered a modest plate, clinging stubbornly to her wounded pride.
Instead, our Thanksgiving table was filled with the people who truly mattered.
Sterling had spent two days smoking a massive hickory turkey on the backyard patio. Sage had baked three different homemade pies from scratch—apple, pecan, and pumpkin—using her grandfather’s old recipe book, the pages stained with vanilla extract and dog-eared with love.
Even Clara and Brin had joined us.
Sitting around our dining table, sharing a meal without the suffocating pressure of fake luxury or performative perfection, felt like breathing fresh air after years in a smoke-filled room.
"Pass the gravy, please," Brin smiled, reaching across the table toward Sterling.
Sterling grinned, handing her the heavy ceramic boat. "Coming right up, kiddo. Make sure you leave room for Sage’s apple pie. It’s legendary."
Sage beamed proudly from across the table, her cheeks slightly flushed from the kitchen heat. Her phone buzzed beside her water glass, but she ignored it, fully present in the warm, noisy chatter of family members who actually loved and respected one another.
After dinner, while Sterling and Richard cleared the dishes and Clara washed, Sage and I stepped out onto the front porch to catch the evening breeze.
The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in strokes of bruised purple, fiery orange, and deep gold.
Sage leaned against the wooden porch railing, wrapping her cardigan tighter around herself. "It’s weird, isn't it?" she asked quietly, looking out over the quiet suburban street.
"What’s weird?" I asked, stepping up beside her.
"Not having Grandma breathing down our necks," Sage said, her expression thoughtful rather than bitter. "For my whole life, I felt like I was constantly running a race where the finish line kept moving depending on who was watching. Now... it feels like I’m finally running on my own track."
I wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. "You were always running on your own track, sweetie. You just finally stopped letting someone else keep score."
Sage smiled, leaning her head against my shoulder. "Grandpa would have liked this Mustang, wouldn't he?"
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"Oh, he would have loved it," I laughed softly. "He probably would insisted on changing the oil himself and checking every single spark plug to make sure it was built to last."
"Just like everything he built," Sage whispered.
