Chapter 9 - The Thanksgiving Table
Three weeks later, Thanksgiving arrived.
The air in Beaufort was crisp and cool, smelling of fallen leaves, ocean salt, and roasted turkey.
Our little wooden cottage was filled with warmth, yellow light, and the delicious aroma of apple pie, roasted garlic potatoes, and hickory-smoked turkey.
My parents—who had flown in from Virginia—sat in the living room playing a board game with Lily. My father’s loud, booming laugh echoed off the wooden beams, while my mother cheered Lily on as she won three turns in a row.
In the kitchen, Claire stood beside me at the counter, helping me carve the turkey and set the silver platters.
There were no crystal chandeliers. There were no servants in black tie. There were no thousand-dollar bottles of wine or icy, silent matriarchs judging every forkful of food.
There was just a simple oak table covered with a checkered cloth, lit by three warm wax candles, surrounded by six mismatched wooden chairs.
When dinner was served, we all sat down together.
Lily sat at the head of the table, wearing a cozy new yellow sweater—one that she had picked out herself at the store—with a big smile stretching across her face.
My father held my mother’s hand, while Claire held Lily’s left hand, and I held her right.
“Before we eat,” my father spoke up, his voice warm and deep, “I think we should say what we’re thankful for this year.”
Lily raised her hand instantly, jumping up and down in her chair. “Me first! Me first!”
We all laughed. “Go ahead, sweetheart,” I smiled.
Lily looked around the table, her eyes lingering on her grandparents, then on her mother, and finally locking onto me.
“I’m thankful for my new house,” Lily said proudly. “I’m thankful for my drawing paints. I’m thankful Mommy comes to visit me every Sunday.”
She squeezed my hand tightly with her little fingers.
“And I’m thankful my Daddy carries me when the snow gets cold.”
A quiet, profound stillness fell over the table.
Claire wiped a happy tear from her cheek, smiling across the table at me with deep, quiet respect. My mother squeezed my father’s hand, her eyes shining with pride.
I looked down at my daughter—my precious, sweet six-year-old girl, whose laughter was whole again, whose heart was safe, and whose future was bright and unburdened.
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“Happy Thanksgiving, Lily,” I whispered, leaning down to kiss her forehead.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Daddy,” she beamed.
