Chapter 4 - The Aftermath of the Bird
The three weeks following Thanksgiving were characterized by a cold, radiating fallout from the Hendrick residence.
Brenda had initiated a full-court press of passive-aggressive warfare. First came the group text messages sent to Graham, detailing her "heart palpitations" and "elevated blood pressure" brought on by the "unprecedented family trauma."
Next came the phone calls from Graham’s aunt and uncle, asking why Margo had "deprived a family of their holiday tradition over a misunderstanding."
On a Tuesday evening in mid-December, Graham sat at our kitchen island, reviewing his phone logs.
I was at the dining table, reviewing occupational therapy client files on my laptop, while Theo drew pictures with crayons near the radiator.
Graham set his phone face down on the counter with a heavy sigh. "My sister just texted me. She said Mom is threatening to cancel the annual Christmas Eve dinner unless you send a formal apology for your 'outburst.'"
I didn't even look up from my laptop screen. "Then I guess Christmas Eve is canceled."
Graham looked at me, a faint, sad smile touching his lips. "You're really not backing down, are you?"
"Graham," I said, setting my pen down and meeting his gaze across the quiet room. "For seven years, I thought if I cooked better, dressed better, parked better, and smiled harder, your family would treat me like a human being. On Thanksgiving, I realized that their treatment of me had nothing to do with my effort and everything to do with their need to keep me beneath them."
I walked over to the island, leaning against the granite.
"I am thirty-four years old," I continued gently. "I run a successful therapy practice. I raise a brilliant, kind son. I am not spending another holiday waiting for your mother to grade my performance."
Graham reached out, weaving his fingers through mine. "I spoke to my dad today."
I raised an eyebrow. "Walter?"
"He called me from his office," Graham revealed softly. "He told me... he told me he was sorry about the tourtière two years ago. He admitted that his mother’s recipe actually did use store-bought lard crust, and that your lattice was better than anything she ever made. He said he was just too afraid of Mom's reaction to admit it at the table."
I blinked, a strange, quiet wave of validation washing over my heart.
May you like
"What did you tell him?" I asked.
"I told him that if he wants to see his grandson for Christmas, he can come to our house alone, or he can stay home with Mom and Renee," Graham said, his voice vibrating with absolute, ironclad resolve. "And I told him that if Mom ever speaks about you with disrespect again, she will never set foot in this house again."
