Chapter 8 - The Family Dinner
Six months after the incident, Thanksgiving arrived.
I had spent the morning in my new Denver apartment, baking a fresh pumpkin pie and enjoying the quiet warmth of my own home. My life had completely transformed: the Northridge project was a massive success, my firm had promoted me to senior associate, and I was surrounded by a strong circle of true friends who valued and respected me.
At three in the afternoon, my phone rang.
It was my father. I hadn't spoken to him since the day he came to Lisa’s apartment begging for a letter to Mr. Sterling.
I picked up the phone. "Hello, Dad."
"Catherine," his voice was quiet, raspy, and aged. "Happy Thanksgiving."
"Happy Thanksgiving, Dad."
There was a long, heavy silence on the line. I could hear the faint sound of a television playing in the background of my parents' house.
"Your mother... made a turkey today," Dad said softly. "It’s just the three of us here. Ryan is down in the basement. Your mother burned the gravy."
He let out a sad, hollow laugh.
"We miss you, Cat," Dad whispered, his voice trembling with genuine emotion. "The house... it feels so empty without you. We were hoping... maybe you could come over for an hour? Just for dessert?"
I stood by my apartment window, looking out over the snow-capped Rocky Mountains. I thought about the girl who used to spend every Thanksgiving slaving away in that kitchen for sixteen hours, driving herself to exhaustion to earn a fleeting smile of approval from a mother who didn't care and a father who wouldn't protect her.
I felt no hatred toward them anymore. The anger had burned away, leaving only a clear, healthy boundary.
"No, Dad," I said gently. "I won't be coming over today."
Dad let out a shaky breath. "Are you ever coming back, Catherine?"
"I love you, Dad," I said honestly. "And I forgive you for what happened. But I am never coming back to that house to be the person you all expected me to be. If you and Mom ever want to have a real relationship with me—one where I am respected as an equal—we can meet at a restaurant in the city. But I will never cook in your kitchen again."
Silence stretched across the phone line for several seconds.
Finally, my father spoke, his voice cracked with deep, quiet regret. "I understand, Cat. I... I'm so sorry. For everything."
"Thank you, Dad," I said softly. "Happy Thanksgiving."
I hung up the phone.
Five minutes later, Lisa arrived at my apartment carrying a bottle of champagne and a tray of roasted appetizers.
"Happy Thanksgiving, partner!" Lisa cheered, walking into my warm, beautifully decorated living room.
May you like
"Happy Thanksgiving, Lisa," I smiled, taking the bottle from her hands.
We sat together by the window, clinking our glasses together, looking out over the breathtaking Denver skyline. My leg was strong, my heart was light, and for the first time in my life, I was standing completely on my own two feet.
