She Ate Thanksgiving Alone by the Trash Can While a Chair Sat Empty at the Table

"Not at the big table, Maya."

Maya stands at the head of the table holding one plate of turkey. Fourteen relatives fill the chairs. Candles are lit. Bowls are passing. Her stepmother points across the room — to a folding card table wedged between the kitchen wall and the trash can. A place card with Maya's name sits on it. And against the dining-room wall, folded and unused, leans a chair.

Maya is fourteen. She has one plate, one chair, and no one who will look up.

"Denise," Maya says. "There's an open chair."

"There isn't room," Denise answers, calm as a napkin being folded. "It blocks the walkway."

Maya turns to her father. Greg is pouring wine, sleeves rolled, wedding band catching the chandelier light. He rubs the back of his neck. "Sweetheart," he says, "it's just tonight."

Just tonight. But the table was already in the kitchen when Maya walked in. She didn't carry it there. She didn't unfold it. She didn't write her own name in a slanted print and set it beside the salt.

She carries her plate into the kitchen and sits down alone.