Chapter 8: New Traditions
Months passed, and the stifling heat of late summer bled into the crisp, cool air of November. Leo was now six months old, a happy, babbling infant who had recently discovered the joy of sweet potato puree and rolling across the living room floor.
With November came the approach of Thanksgiving. In years past, Thanksgiving had been a highly orchestrated, high-stress event dictated entirely by Eleanor. She demanded perfection, heavily critiqued the side dishes, and expected everyone to adhere to her rigid schedule.
This year, the calendar felt entirely different. It felt like a blank canvas.
"So, what's the game plan for Turkey Day?" Ethan asked one evening as he helped Claire fold a mountain of tiny onesies.
"I was thinking," Claire began, her eyes sparkling with excitement, "we do it just the three of us. No extended family, no formal dress code. We wear sweatpants. We roast a small turkey breast instead of a whole bird. And we bake a pie from scratch together."
Ethan grinned. "Sweatpants Thanksgiving? That sounds like paradise."
When the day arrived, it was everything they had hoped for. The house smelled of cinnamon, roasted garlic, and buttery crust. There was no rushing, no yelling, and no underlying tension. They drank apple cider mimosas in the morning while watching the parade on television, with Leo safely propped up in his highchair, gnawing on a teething ring.
As they sat down at the dining table that afternoon—the very same table where Eleanor had callously eaten while Claire lay unconscious—the contrast was staggering. The table wasn't set with expensive china they were afraid to chip, but with everyday plates piled high with food they actually wanted to eat.
Ethan raised his glass of sparkling cider. "To us. To our health, our happiness, and our very first real Thanksgiving as a family."
May you like
Claire clinked her glass against his. "To peace," she added softly.
As they ate, laughing at the mess Leo was making with his mashed potatoes, Ethan realized he didn't miss the grand, stressful gatherings of his past at all. This quiet, imperfect, deeply loving space they had created was the only tradition he ever wanted to keep.
