Thanksgiving fucking dinner. I say it in my head, but from the look on my teenager’s face, I think I said it out loud. He asks me, what about it, and I reply—this time I’m sure—out loud, that it’s a demeaning holiday to Native Americans because it’s like celebrating their colonization and deaths. He blinks, taken aback, and his face lights up with the Gen Z glow—a Caucasian boy who’s never experienced inequality—when confronted with someone else’s injustice. My heart continues to melt like ice cream on a hot plate when my beautiful boy shows such empathy, but I haven’t told him the complete truth. I dread the holiday for a much more personal reason. I run cold water over the still half-frozen twenty-two-pound turkey, pointer finger poking at its icy skin, and try to half-listen to his philosophizing about the evils of American people (he’s strictly Socialist) until his rant turns inevitably into gender and LBGTQ+ equality. Although I agree with him for the most part, my mind’s on his father’s arrival in thirty minutes. We are separated, but still trying to work on our marriage and agreed to celebrate the holidays together as a family unit. Sure, I’m open to repairing all of the damage done, but I’m not quite getting the vibe that he’s owning up to his own damage. His words are there, but as for his actions? I haven’t noted any culpability thus far. My head throbs from the two bottles of Prosecco the night before. Trying to calm my frazzled nerves, I didn’t notice how much I’d had until I awoke, passed out on my spare bedroom’s twin-sized bed, all sprawled out with only my hot pink underwear on, a hammer in sync to a techno song inside my brain. I mmhmm and agree with my sweet and clueless boy until we hear the doorbell chime. Of course, he exclaims, “Dad’s here!” so that I feel even worse. But the four ibuprofen I took are starting to kick in when my soon-to-be ex walks in with a poinsettia plant. He smiles shyly at me. Something inside of my chest slides down to my core and softens my feelings. Maybe I’m just hungover and bitter. Wouldn’t it be great to reconcile and not have to worry about the boy, and also dating again? How thoughtful to bring the plant, and his face looks so sincere. He says, “Hey. Can’t wait to taste your cooking. It’s always the best.” I smile and accept the deep red plant. “It’ll be ready in a bit.” Yeah, I can do this.
Equality. The word rings through my thoughts over and over as I singlehandedly clean every plate, bowl, and utensil. I shut off the hot water running in the sink and hear my two men shouting at the TV. My teeth gnash together, and when my jaw hurts, I walk out the front door, the bar down the road my destination.
INSTANT NOODLES 