Mom answered after several rings. Laughter filled the background.
“Oh, Maya,” she said. “Happy Thanksgiving, honey.”
The way she said my name made it sound like she had remembered something she meant to do.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” I said. “Can I talk to Dad?”
I heard her move the phone away. “Grant, Maya’s calling.”
Dad’s voice came faintly. “Tell her I’m busy. I’ll call later.”
He did not call later.
Mom returned. “He’s carving the turkey.”
“It’s okay.”
“How are you? Are you eating enough?”
I looked at the cup noodles on my desk.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m fine.”
I’m fine was our family password. It meant no one had to look closer.
After we hung up, I opened social media. Amber’s post was first: her between our parents at the dining table, candles glowing, crystal glasses shining, autumn centerpiece arranged by Mom. Dad’s arm was around Amber’s shoulders. Mom leaned close, smiling.
