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I would like to report that Thanksgiving went…better than expected. Even my husband said so in the car on the way back.
The night before the holiday did not go well. My brother came over to see his nieces he hasn’t seen in months. He said hello to Emilia, then as he reached for Elizabeth, I thought he was leaning in towards me, and I opened my body up to accept a hug, only to have that sinking embarrassment as I realized he was moving past me toward the child on the ground.
At that, I gathered my rage and made polite chit-chat with his new girlfriend, then excused myself to my office. I sat upstairs, trying to channel my emotions on paper, when my brother came up. He asked what was wrong. I said he didn’t even say hello to me, in my house, as if he was the one who should be upset.
He said I blasted him on social media.
I said he blasted me in real life, sending the first shove that sent me to a psych ward.
He ignored that and went on to say I didn’t share the whole truth. He brought up the messages, said I’d clipped them. I said I clipped them to spare him. He got in my face and I stood strong, used to watching men unravel in fury in front of me, until my husband came up and broke it up.
My brother went on to say he’s been broken and hurt for months. He’s sick about everything and people have been saying he seems different. He is trying to allude to some pain I’ve caused him. I said he could have fixed that by apologizing. But no one seems to want to do that.
So Thursday came. I had a pit in my stomach. I tried to back out late Wednesday night and again Thursday morning. Then I gathered my strength and rehearsed my answer — for the inevitable question that comes every year from my mother’s seat at the head of the table.
What are you grateful for?
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