My name is Margaret Collins, I’m seventy-four years old, and for decades I believed that quiet sacrifice was the foundation of family love. That Thursday in November, while the rest of the country celebrated Thanksgiving surrounded by laughter and hot meals, I sat alone at a small table with a piece of already cold turkey and a television playing silently.

There was no invitation.
Not a phone call.

Not even a brief message saying, “We’ll call you later.”

From my apartment window, I could see the townhouse across the canal. My house. I bought it forty years ago with the money from selling the jewelry store I ran with my late husband. Now my son Evan, his wife Laura, and my two grandchildren lived there. That night, the house glowed like a luxury cruise ship: warm lights, music, shadows moving behind the curtains.

I wasn’t invited.