For a moment, I thought they might leave, but then Silas looked at the empty kitchen and then back at me. He walked into the kitchen, picked up a knife, and asked, “Where do you keep the potatoes?” One by one, they followed him. Julian started hauling the folding chairs out of the garage without being asked. My sister began organizing the “potluck” items they had brought, realizing that they needed a real plan to make a meal happen for a crowd this size.
I watched them from my chair, and it was like watching a movie of my own life but with different actors. They were bickering over how to season the bird and struggling to find the right serving platters.
As the evening wore on, the smell of roasting meat and herbs finally filled the air. It wasn’t the perfect meal I usually prepared—the gravy was a bit lumpy and the carrots were slightly burnt—but when we all sat down at that long table, something felt different. Silas stood up and raised a glass, but he didn’t toast to the “holiday spirit.” He looked directly at me and said, “Arthur, we were jerks. We thought this house was the magic, but it was actually the work you put in.”
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