Jessica laughed first. Not a full laugh. Just that breathy little giggle she used whenever she wanted the room to know she understood the joke before anyone else did. My father kept slicing the turkey with the concentration of a man trimming hedge branches. He did not look up. He did not say my name. He did not even pretend to be uncomfortable.
My place setting was gone.
Not moved. Gone.
The napkin I had folded on the edge of the table when I walked in with a bottle of red wine was nowhere to be seen. The chair that had always sat at the corner of the dining table had been dragged into the den to hold wrapped gifts. The gap was obvious enough that nobody could claim it had happened by accident.
I stood there for maybe three seconds, still wearing my coat, the cold from outside trapped in my sleeves, and stared at the empty space where I was supposed to be.
Then my mother repeated herself, slower this time, as if I had failed to hear the first insult properly.
“We didn’t set a place for you. This year’s for people who actually show up for family.”
The room stayed still.
