The Following Day.
The early morning light filtered through the thin curtains of my childhood bedroom, painting faint streaks across the walls. I lay there staring up at the ceiling, my body heavy, my mind restless.
It's Thanksgiving. I should feel warmth, joy, anticipation. Instead, I feel dread.
I stretched softly, a yawn escaping my throat. My eyes blinked against the dim light as I pushed myself upright, sitting on the bed. My hand rubbed gently across my eyes, trying to wipe away the heaviness that clung to me.
My arm reached toward the small lamp on the nightstand. A single press, and the bulb flickered to life, flooding the room with warm light. I squinted, turning my head away, the brightness too sudden.
My fingers found my phone beside me. The screen woke at my touch. "6:48," I muttered, reading the time before dropping it back onto the bed. I stretched again, another yawn slipping through my lips, quieter this time.
And then the memories from last night surged back. My father's face, the disdain etched into his features when he asked me what I was doing here. The sharpness in his voice when he told me I wasn't welcome. My mother's silence when I whispered thanks for letting me in. The disappointment in her eyes as she turned away without a word.
I shouldn't have come. I knew better. But I wanted to believe home would still be home. I wanted to believe family could forgive.
The notification sound of my phone jolted me back. A sigh slipped from my lips, heavy, resigned. My eyes lingered on it, but I didn't reach for it. "I'm sorry," I whispered to the empty room. "I know I've brought shame to this family."
---
Hours later, breakfast. The dining area smelled faintly of rice and spices, but the air was thick with silence. I sat with my mother and father, the clink of cutlery the only sound. I took another bite out of my rice.
Then my father's voice cut through the quiet, sharp, deliberate. His eyes flickered up to me, scanning the yellow dress I wore. "What do you think you're doing dressing up for Thanksgiving service?"
I swallowed hard, clearing my throat. "I thought—"
"You thought what?" His voice snapped, cutting me off before I could finish.
"You are not going anywhere with me." His fist pumped against the table, the sound jolting me. His eyes burned with fury. "You've disgraced me enough. People laugh at me behind my back because of you. Gossips everywhere. And now you want to follow me to church? For a fresh set of humiliation? No thank you, ma." His gaze locked on me, unyielding.
My eyes dropped to my plate, then lifted toward my mother.
"Your dad is right," she said, her voice cold, her eyes rolling away from mine. "You can't follow us anywhere. You've embarrassed us enough. You must stay home."
The words slipped out before I could stop them, my grip tightening on the spoon. "No! I'm going. Let people say whatever they want. I don't care."
"Shut up your fucking mouth!" My mother barked, teeth grinding, her voice sharp enough to cut.
Her eyes narrowed, her face twisted into a solid frown. "You might not care about what people say about you or this family, but we do. Your dad is one of the church deacons. Highly respected, honored— before you decided to make a fool of us. And now you demand to go to church with us?" She scoffed, shaking her head. "You must be a very stupid girl."
Her words struck like blows.
"Your dad only allowed you in because I begged him to. You are in no place to make foolish demands. If I were you, I'd be grateful. Shut my mouth. Eat my food. And go back inside my room."
"The girl is just so stupid. If it were up to me, she wouldn't have entered this house," my father added, his frown deepening.
My gaze dropped back to my food. I didn't notice the tears until they rolled down my cheeks, warm, unstoppable.
"Oh, see, poor girl is crying. Like that will fix anything." My father's voice mocked, his lips curling. "You know what will fix things? Try having sense."
"If you want to fucking cry, go inside your fucking room and do that!" My mother screamed, her voice startling me, shaking me to my core.
"Yes, go reflect on your mistakes," she added, her tone sharp, final.
My chair scraped softly against the floor as I rose. My feet dragged, heavy, toward the hallway.
"Pathetic fool," my mother's voice followed, scornful, slicing through me as I walked away.