Chapter 5 - THE THANKSGIVING REHEARSAL
A Partner’s Question and a Broken MirrorThree weeks later, it was Thanksgiving.
Rebecca hadn't planned on going back to Denver. But Eleanor had called four times, employing a delicate mixture of motherly guilt and passive-aggressive sighs.
"It's Thanksgiving, Rebecca. Family is family. And your father really wants everyone under one roof before we start planning the big 30th Anniversary party."
Ethan drove his heavy black pickup truck up through the mountain passes, snow dusting the pines along the highway. Beside him, Rebecca sat staring out the passenger window, her fingers compulsively twisting her silver ring.
"You don't have to do this, you know," Ethan said gently, his hand resting on her knee. "We could turn around right now. Go to a diner in Santa Fe. Eat turkey sandwiches and watch bad movies."
Rebecca gave a tight, faint smile. "I know. But if I don't go, it becomes a whole thing. 'Rebecca’s holding a grudge.' 'Rebecca’s being dramatic again.' I just want to get through dinner, eat the turkey, and come home."
The Miller house was glowing with festive amber lights when they arrived. The driveway was packed with cars—Jason’s new luxury SUV, Megan’s sports car, and Richard’s polished truck.
Inside, the house smelled of roasted sage, butter, and expensive bourbon. The noise level was deafening. Jason was in the living room demonstrating his golf swing to a group of uncles; Megan was showing her cousins photos from her team's tournament win.
When Rebecca and Ethan walked in, Eleanor rushed over, offering brief, dry-cheeked kisses. "Oh, good! You made it! Ethan, put your coats in the guest room."
Dinner was a grand affair. Sixteen people sat around the extended mahogany table. The wine flowed freely, and Richard sat at the head, carving the turkey with grand, theatrical flourishes.
Halfway through the meal, an uncle turned to Rebecca. "So, Becca, heard you had a art show down in Santa Fe recently? How'd that go?"
Before Rebecca could answer, Richard put down his carving knife, took a loud sip of his Cabernet, and wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. The entire table quieted down—everyone knew Richard was about to hold court.
"Oh, it went great!" Richard boomed, his face flushed red from wine. "Sold out the place, I hear! But you know... I still look at her paintings and I just have to laugh."
He looked around the table, gathering his audience, his eyes bright with familiar, intoxicating power.
"I mean, look at her!" Richard pointed his fork at Rebecca. "Sits in a dark room painting abstract stuff all day. Me? I build commercial shopping centers. Jason runs a financial logistics team. Megan coaches kids' sports. And then we have Becca."
The table chuckled politely.
"I'm telling you," Richard said, landing the familiar setup with perfect timing, "the nurses at St. Jude’s Hospital thirty years ago must have mixed up the cribs. There is not a single drop of Miller blood in that girl's veins!"
Right on schedule, Eleanor delivered her part: "Oh, Dick, be nice! Her real parents are probably very cultured!"
The relatives erupted into hearty laughter.
Rebecca felt the familiar, toxic surge of adrenaline hit her system. Her body went into automatic pilot—the defense mechanism she had refined over twenty years. Her face muscles contracted into a bright, easy smile.
Before her father could even take his next breath, Rebecca joined the chorus.
"Oh, absolutely, Dad," Rebecca said, her voice high, bright, and practiced. "In fact, I'm expecting my real father to pull up in a limo any minute now to rescue me from this turkey!"
The table roared. Richard slapped his thigh, turning to Ethan. "See that, Ethan? That's my girl! Rebecca can take a joke! She's got a great sense of humor!"
Ethan didn't laugh.
He sat completely still beside Rebecca, his arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes fixed entirely on Richard with a cold, unyielding glare. When Richard caught Ethan's look, the older man’s smile flickered slightly, awkwardness creeping into his eyes before he quickly turned to talk to Jason about interest rates.
The rest of the dinner passed in a blur of clinking glasses and loud football chatter.
An hour later, Rebecca and Ethan were in his truck, driving through the dark, icy streets of suburban Denver toward their hotel. The heater blew warm air, but the silence inside the cab was deafening.
Rebecca leaned her head against the cold glass of the window, staring at the passing streetlights.
"You laughed," Ethan said quietly.
The words were soft, but they hit the quiet truck like a thunderclap.
Rebecca didn't move. "What?"
"You laughed before he even finished the sentence, Becca," Ethan said, his voice laced with profound sadness, not anger. "You beat him to his own punchline."
Rebecca swallowed hard, her chest tightening. "It's just easier, Ethan. If I laugh first, it doesn't sound like a punch. It sounds like a game. It neutralizes it."
Ethan pulled the truck over to the curb under a yellow streetlamp, shifted into park, and turned to face her fully in the dim light.
"Becca," Ethan said, taking her trembling hands into his warm ones. "Do you actually think it's funny?"
The question hung in the quiet truck, heavy and suffocating.
Rebecca looked at him. She opened her mouth to deliver one of her practiced, defensive quips—'It's just family dynamic,' 'Dad doesn't mean anything by it,' 'It's fine.'
But looking into Ethan's honest, loving eyes, the lie died in her throat.
Her lips trembled. She pulled her hands away from his, pressed her face into her palms, and let out a broken, soundless sob. She cried for the seven-year-old on the driveway, for the fifteen-year-old in the garage, for the artist sitting alone in an empty gallery, and for the adult woman who still pretended her heart wasn't breaking every single time her father opened his mouth.
Ethan pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her as she wept against his chest in the dark cab of the truck.
May you like
"No," she whispered into his coat, her voice barely audible. "I hate it. I've hated it every single day of my life."
"Then stop letting them do it," Ethan whispered fiercely into her hair. "Stop helping them tear you down."
