Daddy Set a Thanksgiving Place for Everyone but His Own Little Girl

NORA'S POV

Daddy came into the kitchen with his wineglass still in his hand.

He was smiling, but it was his company smile, the one that stopped before it reached his eyes.

"Elias, how many of those have you had?" He laughed and clapped Mr. Elias on the shoulder. "Nora's been hiding snacks since she was a toddler. Squirrels away crackers in her sock drawer. Veronica's just trying to teach her healthy eating habits."

Mr. Elias didn't laugh.

He walked to the counter, where a black insulated lunch box sat next to his car keys. He unzipped it and took out a foil packet. Inside was a thick slice of turkey and two soft dinner rolls.

"My housekeeper packs these for my drive home," he said. "I'm not hungry."

He held them out to me. The turkey was still warm through the foil. I could feel it in my palms.

I opened my mouth to say thank you.

Veronica's hand came down first. She plucked both rolls off the foil and set them on the counter, far away from me.

"She's had enough. Nora has a habit of asking for food when she isn't hungry."

I looked at the rolls. Then at my water glass by the sink. It had been empty since lunch.

"She ate cold potatoes off a stool," Mr. Elias said. "Why can't a seven-year-old have a piece of turkey on Thanksgiving?"

Veronica's hand flew to her chest, right over the shiny pearl brooch pinned to her dress. Her voice went soft and wobbly.

"I've been cooking for two days straight, Elias. Two days. And this is what I get? Being called some kind of wicked stepmother in my own kitchen?"

Her eyes got wet. She blinked fast, like she was trying to be brave.

Daddy put his arm around her. Then he looked down at me.

He didn't ask if I was still hungry.

"Nora. Apologize to Veronica."

I didn't know what I'd done. I held the turkey against my apron and said it anyway.

"I'm sorry, Veronica."

She sniffed and patted my head. "That's okay, honey. I know you didn't mean it."

Mr. Elias stared at Daddy for a long time. Then he picked up his keys and walked out to the front hall without his lunch box.

I ate the turkey in four fast bites behind the pantry door, before anybody could take it back.

---

When the guests started finding their coats, Veronica clapped her hands in the front hall.

"Wait, wait! Before anyone leaves, we need a family picture."

A man with a big camera stepped forward, and his assistant switched on a bright white light on a stand. It made everybody squint.

"It's for the children's charity gala next month," Veronica told Mrs. Peterson. "A warm Thanksgiving photo for the foundation brochure. People give more when they see a real family."

A real family.

I slipped away while everyone was talking and ran upstairs.

Mommy's yellow dress was hanging in the back of my closet, where Veronica never looked. It was pale yellow, like butter, with tiny orange pumpkins Mommy had stitched around the collar herself. The buttons down the front were little pearls.

I used to stand still on her bed while she bent down and did them up one by one. She'd hum and say, "There's my sunshine."

My fingers were too clumsy to do all of them. I got four buttoned and left the top one open.

Then I hurried back to the stairs.

Veronica was standing at the bottom. She looked up and her smile went thin.

"Oh, Nora. No." She said it loud enough for the photographer to hear. "That dress is so outdated, sweetie. This is a nice photo. A professional one."

"Mommy made it," I said.

"And it's very sweet. But it doesn't match." She turned to the photographer and laughed. "Kids, right?"

He laughed too, politely, and adjusted his lens.

Daddy lifted Mason up onto his shoulders. Mason squealed and grabbed Daddy's hair. Veronica tucked herself against Daddy's side, her pearl brooch glowing under the light.

I came down the last step and moved toward Daddy's other side. There was space. Plenty of space.

Daddy flicked his hand at me without even looking.

"Step aside, Nora. This picture is for the family foundation."

I stepped back.

Then back again, until I was in the hallway, outside the bright circle of light.

"Big smiles!" the photographer said.

The shutter clicked. Then clicked again.

On the side table by the door sat the new silver frame Veronica had bought last week. The engraving said Bennett Family Thanksgiving.

My name was Nora Bennett.

"I'm part of this family too," I said quietly.

Mason heard. He was still up on Daddy's shoulders, so he looked down at me like I was very small.

"No, you're not." He giggled. "You're just the kid from Daddy's old wife."

Something squeezed hard in my chest. I looked at Daddy. Mommy wasn't an old wife. She was Mommy. He used to dance with her in the kitchen. He used to tell me I had her laugh.

Tell him, I thought. Tell him he can't talk about her like that.

Daddy set Mason down and tugged his suit jacket straight.

"Don't start a scene in front of our guests, Nora."

That was all.

Mr. Elias came down the hall with his coat over his arm. He stopped behind the photographer and glanced at the camera screen. I could see it from where I stood. Daddy, Veronica, and Mason, all smiling and bright.

"Ethan," Mr. Elias said. "Why is it only Mason in the picture? Where's Nora?"

Daddy didn't miss a beat. He put his hand on Mason's shoulder.

"She's too sensitive. It's better if she stays out of the picture. After losing her mom, I don't want to push her in front of cameras."

But he was the one who'd told me to move.

I'd been right there. Ready.

And I realized I'd heard this before. When I wanted to go to the father-daughter breakfast at school, Daddy said I was too young. When they went to Florida in the summer, he said I'd get sick on the plane. Now he said he was protecting me.

Daddy's protecting always looked the same.

It meant standing where nobody could see me.

I looked down. My shoes had left little damp marks on the hallway floor from the wet kitchen tiles. They were the only footprints out here.

The top pearl button of Mommy's dress was still undone.

---

After everyone left, Veronica handed me an empty plastic bin.

"All the decorations. Pumpkins, leaves, the candle rings. Everything goes in the storage closet. Neatly."

I worked until my arms ached. When I knelt to push the bin onto the bottom shelf, my hand hit something soft way in the back.

It was an apron. Faded yellow, with a scorch mark near one pocket.

I knew it before I even pulled it out. It smelled like cinnamon. Like Mommy's Sunday pancakes.

I hugged it to my face. Then I saw what had been hidden under it.

An old shoebox, the corners squashed flat.

I thought it was Mason's broken toys. He shoved things everywhere. But when I lifted the lid, there were envelopes inside. Dozens of them, stacked in neat rows.

Every single one said Nora Bennett.

In the corner, in curly handwriting, was the same return name. Margaret Hale.

I knew that name. Mommy used to talk about her all the time. Her mom. My grandma, who lived far away and made the best pie in the whole state.

But after the funeral, Daddy told me Grandma didn't want to see me anymore.

I counted the envelopes with my finger. I lost track after twenty.

I opened the one on top. A photo slid out. Mommy, younger, with flour on her nose, laughing next to a gray-haired woman rolling out pie crust in a sunny kitchen. They were holding the same rolling pin.

Behind the photo was a paper copy of a plane ticket, and a small white card.

I couldn't read all the words. Some were too long. But I could read the line written biggest, at the very bottom.

I never stopped trying to find you.

My throat went tight.

"Grandma?" I whispered. "But Daddy said you didn't want me."

The floor creaked behind me.

I turned around with the letters crushed against my chest.

Veronica was standing in the closet doorway. Her smile was gone.

"Where did you find those letters, Nora?"