Irritation spiraled in my rib cage as my paper plate rotated in the microwave. Most years, Momma and I spent Thanksgiving at Ansel and Velma’s crowded ranch house with my cousins and all their kids, but this year the Picketts had traveled to Tucumcari, New Mexico, to visit Ansel’s kinfolk instead. That left Momma and me home alone, reheating leftovers from the diner. We had done this before with no complaints, but on that Thursday, we spent most of the day arguing. Her constant insistence that I stay away from those people now sounded like screeching babble in my ears, and I wanted to scream. Because I kept picturing Milla Cunningham in the parking lot of the United with tears on her cheeks. “You don’t even know them, Momma.” “I don’t have to. They come in the diner with all the other goody-goodies, and I sure as heck know them.” I spooned gravy over my turkey and mashed potatoes.
