My Aunt Sneered: “No Medals? You’re Just A Desk Secretary.” I Sipped My Wine. “I Don’t Answer Phones.” She Laughed. “Oh? Then Who Are You?” I Said, “Oracle 9.” Her Son, A Navy Seal, Went Pale. “Mom… Stop Talking.

I stepped out into the crisp November air, the smell of wood smoke and fallen leaves hitting me. Before I could even reach the doorbell, the massive oak door swung open. “Oh, Collins,” Aunt Marjorie sighed, framing herself in the doorway like she was posing for a lifestyle magazine cover.

She was sixty-five, but fighting it tooth and nail with Botox and a wardrobe that cost a fortune. “You’re still wearing that gloomy gray thing on a holiday?”

She stepped aside, ushering me into the foyer, which smelled overwhelmingly of potpourri and expensive perfume. “Look at Nathan,” she gushed, gesturing dramatically toward the living room.

My cousin Nathan stood by the fireplace holding a tumbler of scotch. He was thirty-five, tall, broad-shouldered, and looking like a recruitment poster in his Navy dress blues. The gold buttons on his jacket caught the light from the crystal chandelier.

He looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight. But to Marjorie, he was a statue of perfection. “Doesn’t he look like a god?” Marjorie whispered loudly in my ear as she pulled me into a hug that felt more like a frisk search.

Her eyes traveled down my body, landing critically on my shoes. They were sensible black pumps, the heels worn down from pacing situation rooms, the leather scuffed from kicking open a stuck door in a safe house last week. Marjorie’s lip curled just a fraction of a millimeter.

“We really must take you shopping, dear. You look like you work at the DMV.”

“Happy Thanksgiving, Aunt Marjorie,” I said, my voice flat. Practiced.

I accepted the insult like I accepted incoming intel. Store it, analyze it, don’t react. The dining room was a masterpiece of suburban theater.

The table was set with fine china, silver cutlery that gleamed aggressively, and a centerpiece of autumn flowers that probably cost more than my car payment. “Sit. Sit!” Marjorie commanded.

She placed Nathan at the head of the table. Naturally. I was seated on the side, squeezed between a decorative vase and the drafty window.

My mother sat opposite me, her eyes fixed on her empty plate, already shrinking into herself. The turkey was brought out, a golden-brown twenty-pound bird that looked like it had been styled by a food coordinator. Marjorie picked up the carving knife, but let Nathan take over.

“A warrior needs to carve the meat,” she announced, beaming. As the platters were passed around, the discrimination became a silent comedy. Marjorie heaped thick, juicy slices of white meat onto Nathan’s plate, followed by a mountain of stuffing and cranberry sauce.

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