That did not last nearly as long as I wanted it to.

I remember the first serious crack because I replayed it countless times afterward. It happened during our second Thanksgiving as a married couple. I spent nearly the entire day cooking from recipe cards covered in my late grandmother’s careful handwriting.

The house smelled of sage, browned butter, and pecan pie cooling near the kitchen window. A football game played softly from the den while November rain tapped against the glass.

When dinner began, Willamina tasted the stuffing, lowered her fork with a deliberate clink, and addressed the table. “It’s sweet when some people try so hard to prove they belong somewhere they clearly weren’t born into.”

Several people laughed — the awkward, obedient laughter people offer when they understand the insult perfectly but don’t want responsibility for acknowledging it.

Grantham reached for the gravy and steered the conversation toward football. I stayed in my seat with my fingers wrapped too tightly around my water glass.