Thanksgiving at the Vale house always looked perfect from outside: tall windows glowing against a dark Seattle afternoon, crystal glasses lined up beside white candles, gold-rimmed plates, and my mother, Marjorie Vale, floating through the dining room as if we were a family people envied.
Maybe some did.
They saw the gated driveway, polished floors, a grand piano no one played, and my father’s framed business awards in the hallway. They saw my older sister, Serena, in a fitted navy dress, laughing beside her fiancé while my parents watched her like she had been born flawless.
Then there was me.
I sat near the end of the table in my Navy uniform because I had driven straight from Naval Base Kitsap after duty. My hair was pinned tight, my hands scrubbed clean, though the skin around my knuckles still carried years of work no one in that room wanted to imagine.
