Thanksgiving started at the door. Mom looked at my work boots and asked when I would stand on my own two feet. I had driven five hours with a cedar box built in Grandpa Harlan’s workshop. At sixteen he gave me a four-inch brass level worn smooth from work, tapped my chest, and told me to build it level and never let anyone talk me out of knowing what that meant. I still carry it. Desmond’s photos owned the walls. One picture of me hid behind a ceramic angel. Twelve china places filled the table. A folding chair and paper plate waited at the end. Mom sent me there and called me a freeloader. Cousin Priya sat beside me anyway.

Dad announced the Aldridge River Bridge and said Bennett Contracting was close to a finishing package. Mom called it real work and said real work is not done from a laptop. I had told them three times I was the engineer of record and that four hundred twelve drawings carried my seal. They asked why I still rented and passed the salt. Desmond’s gadget won applause. Priya asked about my box. Mom shook it, called homemade sweet, and said it was not a real present. Then she told nineteen relatives I rented, I was divorced, I drove a filthy truck, and I lived off other people. Dad shoved the box into my glass and told me to keep the cheap gift and leave.