Original short fiction from Rarle USA. Characters and events are fictional.
By noon on Thanksgiving, every chair in Denise’s house had been assigned twice. Her brother wanted the end seat so he could get up without disturbing anyone. Her niece wanted to sit beside her cousin. The folding chair squeaked, and nobody admitted they had been avoiding it for years.
Her mother, Evelyn, watched the negotiations from the kitchen doorway. At seventy-eight, she was still the person everyone consulted about gravy and nobody consulted about seating. Finally she asked Denise to bring the small chair from the bedroom. “We already have enough,” Denise said. “One more,” Evelyn replied.
Everyone assumed Evelyn had invited an old friend. Denise set another plate, adjusted the serving dishes and tried not to feel irritated. The day had become a chain of small practical worries. A surprise guest seemed like one more thing she ought to have known about before buying groceries.
At two o’clock, the doorbell rang. On the porch stood Martin, the neighbor who drove the morning bus and brought packages inside when rain threatened. He held a grocery-store pie. Denise knew his face better than his name. She had thanked him many times without ever asking whether he wanted to come in.
“Your mother said there might be a seat,” he said. Evelyn appeared behind Denise and took the pie. “There is,” she replied. She introduced him around the room with the confidence of someone who had settled the matter long before everyone else noticed a question.
Dinner began with polite conversation. Martin said his grown children were spending the holiday with other relatives this year. He had planned to heat a frozen meal after his shift. He said it matter-of-factly, without asking anyone to feel sorry for him. Denise was grateful
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