Chapter 6
Thanksgiving
Sofie
Thanksgiving works because it has rules, even when these two come in and change the plans by meeting their prep school ‘friends’ at the parade and throw off the day.
Sit. Smile. Eat what’s put in front of you. Pretend the table is stable even when you can feel it wobbling.
My father is having a good day.
I know the second I walk in because he’s already dressed, navy jacket, white shirt, no tie. No confusion in his eyes. He kisses my cheek cleanly, calls me Sofie without searching for it, asks if I’ve eaten. Not where I came from. Not what time it is. Eaten.
I take my seat to his right. Always the same seat. Close enough to intercept. Far enough not to look like I’m hovering.
My sisters arrive like they’re stepping onto a stage.
Elena first, perfectly composed, divorced again, but framing it as a reinvention. Bianca right behind her, phone still in hand, some man with a name lighting up the screen. They look expensive, bored, and faintly irritated by the effort of being present.
They kiss my father’s cheeks like little girls again, all softness and nostalgia.
“Daddy,” Elena says, lingering on the word.
He smiles, relieved, like the sound steadies him.
Dinner begins with soup, poured tableside. Roasted garlic broth with thyme and a Parmesan rind. Elena leans back to watch it like it’s entertainment.
“Oh, good,” she murmurs. “Something light. I hate when Thanksgiving feels… heavy.”
Bianca nods. “God, remember when it was all just dumped on the table?”
“Family style,” Elena wrinkles her nose.
Before consequences, I think.
My father lifts his spoon carefully, tastes, and nods. “This is very good.”
I exhale a fraction.
Good day. Still.
The salad arrives next. Pears and burrata spaced out on wide plates, nothing touching, like abundance isn’t the point. Order is.
The same exact food that was served at Claudia and Deacons dinner, aside from the soup. Rich people food. I want freaking pizza.
Elena tilts her head at it. “It’s almost too pretty to eat.”
Bianca smirks. “That’s how you know it’s expensive.”
They both glance at me.
“So,” Elena says, cutting into a pear, “are you still running around with that hockey crowd?”
I keep my eyes on my plate. “Some of the time.”
She hums. “I just worry. Athletes are so… transient. And the women.” She smiles sweetly. “Very enthusiastic.”
Puck bunny, without saying puck bunny.
Bianca laughs. “I saw one of her girls online. Or maybe it was a fan account. Hard to tell. A proposal?”
“You mean Deacon Moretti whose played in the league for years and is highly respected and Claudia, Doctor Claudia Holloway? That was very real.” I stab a pear, shove it in my mouth, and chew.
My father frowns faintly. “Now, girls.”
“Oh, we’re teasing,” Elena says, touching his arm. “She knows we love her.”
Love, like a technicality.
The main course lands: turkey carved clean, potatoes not as smooth as The Bridgeview’s, which is perfect because it’s not perfect.
My father tells a story about an early Thanksgiving in Connecticut, before their mothers and my father’s divorce, before my mother, before me, before New York. I’ve heard it twice this week. Elena laughs like it’s brand new. Bianca interrupts to correct a date that doesn’t matter.
He recovers easily. Laughs. Waves her off.
Good day.
He reaches for his wine and misses the stem by an inch. I slide the glass closer without looking. He doesn’t notice the correction, only that the problem is solved.
“You’ve always been so good,” he says quietly, like it’s a compliment meant to land deep.
Elena rolls her eyes. “She’s ever-present, that’s a skill of its own.”
Bianca smirks. “I don’t know why anyone would try to be his favorite. I have and always will be.”
Everyone laughs; I pretend to.
When dessert comes, Bianca leans forward. “So. Are you still planning to meet with the board after the New Year?”
I nearly drop my fork. She knows nothing about Fairfax.
“Yes,” my father says immediately. “Of course.”
“No offense Sof, but I saw Mitsi Muldoon today and her father,” a board member, “Is concerned. You’re just not Arthur Fairfax. Never will be.”
“Sofie is doing a great job,” Dad defends me. Again, I’m shocked.
“They’ve been antsy,” Elena adds lightly. “They’ve known Sofie for years, but feel like she’s,” she pauses. “Well, like she’s getting too big for her britches.”
“No reason to worry,” he says, then hesitates.
“Daddy,” Bianca whispers, as if I won’t hear whatever insult she’s about to hurl due to her tone. “If you need Elena or me to take over some tasks so you can enjoy semi-retirement, we would both gladly do so.”
I huff, and they both look at me.
Elena tilts her head, smiling like she’s doing me a favor. “You know, Sofie, if you’re ever overwhelmed, you could always… pivot.”
Pivot? I almost choke on my wine.
Bianca nods eagerly. “Exactly. You don’t have to do all of this.” She gestures vaguely at the table, the room, my father. “There are other paths.”
I look between them. Keep my voice light.
“Oh?” I ask. “Like what?”
Elena brightens. “Well, with the right degree, doors open.”
I set my glass down carefully. “True. Remind me again what yours were in?”
A beat.
Bianca laughs. “Oh my god. You know this.”
“I want to hear it,” I say.
Elena waves a hand. “International Lifestyle Management.”
That is not a real thing. It was, however, an extremely expensive thing.
“And you?” I ask Bianca.
She shrugs. “Luxury Brand Communications.”
From a school that no longer exists.
“Right,” I say, nodding. “And how are those working out?”
My father smiles faintly, unaware. “Girls—”
“I’m just curious,” I say gently. “You both make it sound so simple.”
Bianca leans back. “It’s about knowing how to move in the world.”
Elena adds, “Reading people. Making connections.”
I smile. “So… spending money you didn’t earn and convincing men with money you’re special?”
The air tightens.
Bianca’s laugh comes out, “That’s unfair.”
“Is it?” I ask. Still calm. Still pleasant. “Because from where I’m sitting, the skill set seems to be spending Dad’s money and calling it independence.”
He frowns. “Sofie—”
“I don’t mean it unkindly,” I say quickly, turning to him. “They’re very good at what they do, they should take it as a compliment.”
Elena bristles. “We’ve built lives.”
“Of course,” I say. “In cities you don’t pay taxes in. With men whose last names open doors. Supported by allowances that arrive on schedule.”
Bianca’s eyes flash. “You think you’re better than us?”
I answer politely, but honestly. “I think I’ve made… different choices.”
Elena laughs haughtily, “By never leaving father’s side? He’s been your security blanket, your whole life.”
“And you’ve never left his wallet.” Take that bitch.
Silence.
My father looks between us, uneasy now. “All right,” he says softly. “Let’s not argue.”
I nod immediately. “Of course.”
“Daddy loves to take care of us.” Elena exhales dramatically. “We’re just trying to help.”
“Thanks,” I say. “And if I ever need advice on how to spend money without accountability, I’ll ask.”
Bianca pushes her chair back slightly. “Wow.”
I pick up my wine. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
Dad reaches for my hand, squeezing it like he’s afraid the moment might slip away. “You girls are all so… strong,” he says, hopeful.
They preen at that; I swallow back the bile. Because to him, strength for women is something soft, something pretty, something that doesn’t demand anything money can’t fix. Like their fucking noses in middle school. The same nose we got from him, the one they still to this day suggest I have fixed.
And I let it stay that way for him, for now.
We eat in near silence, and the coffee arrives.
Dad tilts his head, thoughtful. “And how is your mother these days?”
Their heads snap to face each other, a plan being formed between them, and they both sigh as they look at Dad.
“She’s… fine,” Elena says. “Still adjusting.”
Adjusting to the house in Darien? The staff, the alimony he was never supposed to pay, that outlived his second wife? Mom.
“The holidays are hard for her,” Bianca adds.
Dad frowns. “Hard?”
“She worries,” Elena says quickly, then whispers, “About money.”
I tighten my grip on my mug.
He leans forward. “I don’t want her struggling.”
She has never struggled. Child support didn’t stop until they’d both been in college earning their bullshit bachelor’s, switching majors repeatedly for ten years.
Degrees paid for. Apartments covered. I’m still convinced Bianca’s final semester tuition was wired directly to the registrar just to pass her.
“We thought,” Elena says softly, “maybe just a little extra this year?”
“Nothing dramatic,” Bianca adds. “Just to help her through Christmas.”
I want to stab them with my fork.
“Of course,” my father says. “I don’t want her worrying during the holidays.”
“Santa always comes through,” Bianca says brightly.
He laughs with them, grateful that he can still fix something, I imagine.
Dessert is finished. Coats appear, telling me they aren’t even staying here tonight. A double-edged sword. I feel bad for Dad, but then again, will he even remember them in the morning?
My father hugs them, tells them he’s proud, that he’s happy they came. He says it like he’s memorizing their faces.
When it’s just us, he squeezes my hand. “You did well tonight.”
“I know,” I say.
He smiles, satisfied, and lets me guide him toward the door.
“It’s A Wonderful Life?” he asks.
My eyes heat, but I hold back the tears, “Yeah, I’d like that.”
Good day.
Once Dad is settled for the night, I walk out from his wing and pull the door shut quietly behind me.
The home has that hollowed-out quiet it only gets after a performance. Dishes cleared. Lights dimmed. Everyone gone except the people who are paid handsomely enough to pretend they don’t know a thing is wrong.
Matteo is standing in front of the fireplace, jacket already on, hands in his pockets like he’s been waiting.
“You heading out?” he asks.