Thanksgiving was for giving thanks. I knew I had a lot to be happy about—my life, my health, my children—but I didn’t feel like celebrating anything. Payment arrangements, extensions, speaking to a supervisor . . . I didn’t want to do any of the above anymore. I needed money. I needed a job. These past few months had been pure hell, and, well, I didn’t want to be around anyone. That man I interviewed with, Mr. Creighton, had guaranteed me a second interview, and all I got was a form letter saying that they went with another candidate. My mom had been calling me all morning, making sure I made my red potato salad for Thanksgiving dinner. I’d made the salad, but I still wasn’t going to dinner. I didn’t really want to disappoint everyone, but I didn’t want to make everyone miserable, either. I’d rather keep my drama to myself. She started calling my phone nonstop. I finally answered. “Mom, I’m not coming to Thanksgiving, but you can pick up the potato salad,” I told her when she called again.
