By noon, the luxury lake house I’d rented was canceled, my sister had returned my SUV, and my phone was flooded with furious calls.
“Plans have changed, Nora,” Mom announced. “Camille wants an adults-only Thanksgiving. Ivy can’t come.”
I stared at my daughter, who was decorating our kitchen windowsill with handmade paper turkeys. She’d spent three evenings making one for every relative.
“Adults only?” I repeated. “At the Thanksgiving dinner I’m paying for?”
“Don’t be difficult. Your sister has had a stressful year. She deserves one peaceful holiday.”
“So my daughter has to stay home?”
“Please stop making everything about Ivy.”
I closed my eyes.
Camille had always been Mom’s favorite. At thirty-two, she loved expensive clothes, luxury vacations, and being the center of attention. Whenever she behaved selfishly, Mom made excuses.
I was the older daughter who solved everyone’s problems.
When my husband died three years earlier, Mom skipped Thanksgiving with Ivy and me because Camille was upset about a breakup.
My daughter had waited beside the window all afternoon, hoping Grandma would arrive.
She never did.
After my husband’s funeral, Mom’s first serious question wasn’t whether Ivy and I were coping.
It was whether his life insurance had paid out.
Camille needed help with her condo expenses.
I paid them.
And somehow, my family decided that meant I could always afford to rescue them.
This Thanksgiving, I’d tried once more to bring everyone together.
I rented a six-bedroom lake house, hired a caterer, and organized the entire celebration.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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