I reached out to my ex, Colin, hoping that inviting him to Thanksgiving would help us find closure. Our breakup had been quiet—too quiet—and part of me still needed answers. When he said he already had other plans, I accepted it with disappointment. But when he showed up anyway, completely unannounced, something in my chest sank. And then I saw who was with him.
The kitchen was filled with the warm scent of cinnamon and roasted vegetables. I stood next to Mom, peeling potatoes while she chopped green beans. The windows fogged up from the heat of the oven, and the radio hummed soft country songs that reminded me of childhood.
But my mind wasn’t there. It was with Colin.
“You still haven’t heard from him?” Mom asked as she tossed the beans into a bowl.
I shook my head. “Not since the fight.”
“What even caused it?”
I paused, hands hovering over a potato. “I wish I knew. One moment we were laughing and making dinner. The next, he just… pulled away.”
Mom gave me a gentle look. “Sometimes, silence feels easier than saying what hurts.”
I looked down. “So what do I do now?”
She answered softly. “Talk. Invite him. If it’s really over, let it be over with honesty—not unanswered questions.”
So I called him.
He answered, quiet. I asked if he wanted to come. Just to talk. His reply: “I already have plans.”
I thanked him anyway and hung up, swallowing the sting. Then I went back to peeling potatoes and hiding the tears in the steam.
That evening, the house buzzed with family chatter and the smell of turkey, sweet rolls, and pie. My younger brother Eli hovered near the table, asking for the fifth time if we could eat. Mom shooed him away, still fussing with the table settings. She had gone all-out with her best dishes, folded napkins, and candles flickering just right.
Then the door opened.
I looked up, expecting my sister Rachel. She was there—but right behind her was Colin.
My heart dropped.
“You said you weren’t coming,” I blurted.
He just gave a small smile. “I said I had other plans.”
Rachel waved and said, “Surprise!” like she hadn’t just detonated my peace.
Colin took a seat beside her like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The table went silent. Even Dad’s usual jokes couldn’t lighten the air.
I stared at them—sharing bread, whispering like nothing had happened. It made me feel sick.
“Really, Rachel?” I said, too loud.
Her smile faded. “It’s not what you think.”
“First it was my favorite doll, then my prom dress. And now him?”
She looked stunned. “You’re my sister.”
“Exactly,” I choked. “And this? This is betrayal.”
I stormed out into the cold, my heart pounding.
Outside, drizzle soaked my coat. I fumbled with my keys, hands shaking. Then I heard him behind me.
“Anna, wait!”
I turned. Colin was running through the rain, breathless.
“It’s not what you think,” he said.
“You brought my sister to Thanksgiving. What am I supposed to think?”
“I didn’t plan this to hurt you. I just… didn’t know how to reach you anymore. I thought if you saw me, maybe we could talk.”
“That’s manipulative,” I snapped. “You could’ve just called.”
“I know. I panicked. I miss you.”
His voice was soft, soaked with regret. “Rachel offered to help. I didn’t think. I just wanted to matter to you again.”
“You still do,” I admitted, tears mixing with rain. “That’s the worst part.”
We sat in the car, silent as the heater hummed and the rain tapped the windshield.
“I didn’t handle this right,” he said. “But it came from a place of missing you.”
I looked at him—truly looked. His vulnerability matched my own.
“I’m sorry too,” I whispered. “I waited for you to call and pretended the silence didn’t hurt. But it did.”
He took my hand—gently, like asking permission.
“I love you,” he said. “Even when I act like a fool.”
I gave a teary laugh. “You are a fool. But I love you too.”
We stayed there, warm and still, hands joined, not rushing to fix anything—just sitting in peace.
Eventually, I said, “I should apologize to Rachel.”
“She meant well,” he replied.
“I know. I let old wounds talk tonight.”
We returned to the house together. Damp from the rain, my heart still raw but steadier.
As we stepped inside, everyone turned. Rachel stood frozen near the table.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “That wasn’t fair.”
Rachel’s eyes softened. “I just wanted to help.”
We hugged—awkward and stiff, but honest.
Dad clapped. “Now that the drama’s over, can we eat before Eli chews a chair?”
The room lightened. Laughter bubbled up.
Colin and I sat side by side. He took my hand again under the table. This time, I let him.
Mom caught my eye and gave a small nod. I smiled back.
In that moment, I felt something I hadn’t in a long time—peace.
Because the truth is, silence doesn’t protect us. It builds walls. But conversation? Even hard ones? That’s how we start to heal.
So we keep showing up.
We keep listening.
We keep coming back to the table.
Together.
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