Chapter 9: A Wider Table
In the sixth month I hosted Thanksgiving for the people who had actually been present when it counted—cofounders, two early employees, Marissa, and a neighbor who had watered plants during the closing week of the sale.
No one sat in a hierarchy of blood. No one required a folder to prove their seat. We ate and argued about nothing that mattered and everything that did. When Mom texted a photo of her own table, I sent back a simple wish for a good holiday. When Dad called to say the door was open, I thanked him and stayed where I was. The open door was progress. Walking through it on demand was no longer my job.
Evan’s name did not appear in any message that day. I noticed the absence the way you notice a healed bruise—present in memory, irrelevant to the current movement of the body.
