Thanksgiving arrived with a crisp, biting chill. The scent of roasted turkey and sage stuffing filled my house. For the first time in years I hadn’t paid for everything.

Chloe brought pies she’d baked herself instead of buying. My mother brought the green bean casserole.

When the doorbell rang at two o’clock, I opened it to find Greg on the porch holding a bottle of sparkling cider. He wasn’t drinking anymore. He looked nervous, his eyes darting to the floor before meeting mine.

“Come in,” I said, stepping aside.

The afternoon was tense, everyone tiptoeing around the elephant in the living room. Greg was quiet. He helped carry plates. He told no loud, boasting stories.

He made no jokes at anyone’s expense. When Leo asked a question about football, Greg answered him respectfully — treating a thirteen-year-old like a peer instead of a punching bag.