Her eyes traveled over my black slacks, sensible flats, and exhausted face. I was twenty-six, working double shifts as a surgical scheduler at a clinic, and somehow my family still treated me like the little girl who spilled cranberry juice every Thanksgiving.

I leaned toward Emily for a hug, but my mother caught my elbow first.

“Go sit with the kids,” she whispered.

I honestly thought I’d heard her wrong. “What?”

She tilted her head toward the far end of the room. A smaller table sat near the kitchen doors where my younger cousins were eating fries, coloring on paper placemats, and staring at their phones.

“Mom, I’m not sitting at the kids’ table.”

Her smile sharpened instantly. “Only grown-ups are sitting at this table tonight.”