Thanksgiving Dinner Short Story

“Kim, you have ten minutes to come downstairs! We will not be late for this dinner!” Trying to ignore her high-pitched voice, I make my way into my room. As I walk through the matte, mulberry-colored door, I see the hideous floral sundress that my mother has gently placed on my bed. What is the point of this stupid dinner? All I want is to be able to eat what I want, when I want. Why can’t she understand that? Dad would have understood. I just want to stay within my paisley walls, lights dimmed, and not worry about anything at all.

Slipping into this beautiful dress, I feel a gnawing, piercing pain in my stomach… Crap. I’m hungry. I instantly start thinking about all the different foods that will be at this grand Thanksgiving dinner. I can

already smell the crisp, freshly baked turkey. See the cake, a handcrafted masterpiece golden brown and as fluffy as a pillow. Taste the sharp tang of the cranberry juice. Then, I mistakenly get a glimpse of myself in my mirror and I am appalled. I see the remains of the wheat waffle I had for breakfast on my arms. The 20-oz. diet soda pushing against the lily-print bow on my stomach. The coffee sticking to my thighs. I immediately look away; I’ve lost my appetite.
“Mom, I don’t feel well. Can I stay at home?” I groan. “No, Kim, you are not getting out of this this time!” As I hesitantly walk downstairs, I see my mother beaming, clearly in awe of how beautiful I look. Unamused, I glare at her. As we make our way next door, I wonder what they’re going to think of me. Are they going to notice the pancake stack under my chin? Or the way my thighs rub together beneath the hem of my dress? I can feel my heart pounding through my temples as thoughts flood my mind.
As we take our shoes off at the door, Mr.

and Mrs. Rowley welcome us warmly. Mom pushes me to hug them both, but I simply let their arms fold around me, while mine stay planted at my sides, covering my love handles. They direct us to the dinner table. My feet drag against the harsh, brown carpet; my eyes stay glued to it. I look up, and in front of me, there is this feast. I guess I could be somewhat excited deep, deep, deep down—but it will never be as good as the Thanksgiving dinners we had when Dad was here.

We sit at the table, and the smell of all the food hits me. Everything that I imagined earlier is now a reality. Too bad I’m not in the mood to devour it… While Mrs. Rowley goes into the kitchen, Mr. Rowley attempts to be humorous with me. “Don’t look so sad. We’ll be eating soon.” I stare at him as leans over and nudges me. My mother laughs to fill the silence and knees me in the leg. “She’s shy,” she says, after I remain silent. Mr. Rowley chuckles. “It’s okay to be a little quiet. That ain’t never hurt

nobody.”
Mrs. Rowley returns and finds a seat next to her husband. “Let’s dig in!” My mother slaps a huge turkey leg onto my plate. Next to it, she places three slices of honey-glazed ham. Then she piles on buttery mashed potatoes mixed with green beans and soggy carrots. I am overwhelmed. My hunger intensifies, but to my left, I see my distorted figure in a glass. I stare at it, shutting out the background noise. Why can’t I be happy with myself anymore?
“Mom, can I be excused, please?”
“No, honey, you haven’t even touched your food yet! Just eat half of it.”
“I told you I was feeling sick before we got here. If I eat this, I’ll vomit.”
“Please, just have some of it.

For the sake of our generous neighbors.”

Too afraid of how they image of me would change as I take the chance and stuff my face I simple separate the beans from the carrots, take four small bites of potato, and ask to be excused again. “Okay, hun,” my mother sighs, disappointed. “You can go into the living room until we’re finished.” As I timidly push my chair back, the Rowleys smile sympathetically. “Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Rowley. The food was fantastic.”

They keep smiling, but I can tell that they’re confused; they know I didn’t eat that much. Mrs. Rowley says, “Feel better!” As I turn away, Mr. Rowley says softly to my mother, “It’s okay if she doesn’t feel like eating with us. Kids are so much more different now than how we used to be.”

As I walk through the doorway of their living room, I hear them continue to talk about me. “Your daughter is so beautiful,” Mrs. Rowley says. “So tall and lean, with those endless limbs. It’s a shame that it’s too late for me to look like that, but I can definitely see all the students in her school trying to be just like

her…”
My mom replies, “I’m worried about her, though. After her father moved out, she has really changed for the worst. Every time I try to do something for her so that she can have great memories with other people like she use to with her dad, just makes her shuts down…”
Pretending not to overhear their conversation, I continue to slowly walk away. I toss my body on the plastic covered couch and the only thing that comes to mind is the fact that I know that I will never be as happy with myself like I was before my dad left mom and I. There will be no more days when I can help my dad cook some of our favorite dishes as we playfully joke about each other’s appearance.