I knocked once and stepped inside. Nobody came to the door. They never do. It was always the same—me entering like a guest at my own family’s party.
My mother, Elaine, barely looked up from her glass of Chardonnay. She was perched on the edge of the couch, watching Veronica’s kids put on some impromptu dance recital in the living room.
“Hi, Ma,” I said, placing the pie on the counter.
She blinked at me, smiled vaguely, and turned her attention back to her granddaughters. “Oh, you look tired,” she said. It’s her signature move—judgment wrapped in velvet concern.
Veronica appeared from the kitchen in heels too high for someone making mashed potatoes. “Oh, you brought something,” she said, eyeing the pie like it was a biological hazard. “That’s cute.”
Blake strolled by, holding a glass of something amber. “Hey, Cal,” he said, using the nickname I hate. “Kids look big.”
We weren’t offered seats. We weren’t offered drinks. There was no “help yourself.” No welcoming gesture, no warmth. My cousins were all there, chattering, pouring wine, passing appetizers from one manicured hand to the other. And then there was me, standing in a corner with my two kids, smiling through the awkwardness like I always do.
Ila whispered, “Can I give Grandma my pie?”
I nodded. She walked over and held it out to my mom like she was handing her a treasure. My mother took it, looked at it for half a second, and said, “Oh, sweet potato. How quaint.” Then she set it on a side table, behind a vase.
That was when I realized I’d made a mistake. But it was too late to leave. Dinner was being served, and I figured maybe we’d at least have a seat at the table. Just one hour, I told myself. I could endure anything for an hour.
Then Veronica walked in holding a stack of paper plates. Her eyes met mine, and I swear she smiled.
“We’re a little short on space,” she said loudly, as if she were announcing it to the whole room. “So, I set something up for you guys in the garage.”
I didn’t understand at first. “The garage?” I repeated, almost laughing, thinking it was some weird joke.
She nodded, dead serious. “Yeah. You’re used to scraps, right?”
Every conversation in the room stopped. No one said a word. And just like that, I knew I was back where I always was: unwanted, overlooked, shoved aside like a stray dog who got in through the back door.
My kids looked up at me, waiting to see what I’d do.
So, I smiled. I took the paper plates from her hands, and I walked my children to the garage.
Chapter 2: The Exile
The garage was cold. Not just physically cold, though it was that too, with a thin draft slipping through the side door and the concrete floor leeching the warmth from our shoes. It was emotionally cold. A place that wasn’t meant to hold people, let alone family.
It smelled like oil, cardboard, and neglect. There was a folding table set up against the far wall, two metal chairs, and a plastic crate. No centerpiece, no tablecloth. Just a roll of paper towels and a few flimsy plastic utensils. One of Veronica’s kids’ old booster seats sat dusty in the corner like a silent insult.
Micah sat down slowly on one of the metal chairs. Ila looked around, then reached up and touched my hand.
“Is this where we’re eating?” she asked quietly.
I nodded, unable to find my voice. She didn’t say anything else, just climbed onto the crate and rested her elbows on the table. Her little dress bunched awkwardly under her, and I saw her trying to smooth it out like it mattered. Like someone would notice.
I laid out the food we’d been given. Turkey slices barely warm, some mashed potatoes with no gravy, and green beans that looked like they’d been microwaved in a plastic bag. No cranberry sauce. No bread. No second helpings.
No one came to check on us.
Micah held his plastic fork for a long time before finally stabbing at a piece of turkey. “Why’d they put us out here?” he asked, staring at the concrete floor.
I didn’t have an answer. How do you explain to a twelve-year-old that his aunt and grandmother view poverty as a character flaw? How do you explain that we were being punished for not having a Range Rover?
Ila’s eyes were shiny, but she blinked fast, trying to be brave. “Did we do something bad?”
