The smell hit me first: baked ham, cinnamon rolls, lemon polish, and melting ice in a punch bowl. The room stayed loud for two more seconds before anyone noticed me.
My brother Noah sat at the center of the table in his ROTC uniform, hair perfect, collar sharp, looking like the son every father wanted to show off. My mother had placed a small American flag beside his plate.
Every chair was taken.
Aunt Lydia saw me first.
“Oh,” she said. “You came.”
Then everyone looked.
My mother recovered quickly. “Mara, honey. We weren’t sure.”
“I said I’d come.”
There were name cards at every seat. Noah. Mom. Dad. Aunt Lydia. Uncle Frank. Grandma. Even Mrs. Parker from next door.
No Mara.
My father cleared his throat but did not stand. “Traffic from wherever you work must have been rough.”
Wherever you work.
That was what they called my life now. Something vague. Something unworthy of details.
Mom glanced toward the porch. “There’s a folding chair outside.”
Noah looked down at his plate.
That hurt more than I wanted it to.
I brought the chair in myself. Its metal legs screeched against the floor. No one moved to make room, so I placed it at the corner, half in the dining room, half blocking the kitchen path.
I sat anyway.
