potatoes. Green bean casserole. My father was carving the meat with the same old wooden handled knife my mother used to love before she passed. Everything about the scene was familiar except the absence, which was
mine. The daughter who had spent Christmas deployed overseas. The daughter who had sent money home when Dad lost his job. The daughter who had paid for Evan’s rehab twice. The daughter who had shown up every time she was asked, until tonight, when she was not asked.
Three days earlier I had woken to a group text from my father: “Christmas dinner is family only this year. Everyone already knows the plan.” Everyone except me. I called him. Straight to voicemail. I tried again.
Voicemail. By afternoon I got a single reply: “Don’t make this difficult, Olivia. We’ve already discussed it.” Except we had not discussed anything. That evening, Linda finally texted: “This year is intimate family only. It’s better if you sit this one out. Don’t take it personal.”
