It was my mother’s second house in this marriage. Marriage number four. But to husband number two. You see, she was married to my father three times before this guy. 

Confused? Same. 

My parents’ twenty-four-year relationship went like this: A court marriage for citizenship, a pregnancy, a big family wedding, another baby, marital discord sprinkled with two more children, four kids by the second divorce. Then two years later, a shotgun wedding in Vegas—I watched it on a webcam from my college dorm, texting my siblings the news. All four of us were shocked a few years later when their third divorce actually stuck.

Throughout it all, my parents never introduced new partners. The roller coaster was only ours. 

This was the first Thanksgiving with the imposter family member: her then-husband. He sat at the dining room table—that she’d bought three houses ago—with a gleam of pride at the plentiful spread in front of him. Like a king in his castle. The castle that belonged to the Queen, purchased by the ex-King’s alimony. 

I take a breath and resist the urge to grimace at his smug face. His half of the his-and-hers apron set was still pristinely white, while hers evidenced hours spent marinating, mincing, mashing, and mixing. 

We sit. 

Whipping off her soiled apron, my mother takes her place in the chair next to Mr. Mediocre and observes her one, two, three, four children—a sheepish look on her face that said,  I may have overdone it with the food. 

“Looks incredible, Mary.” My husband politely breaks the silence. At sixteen years together, we are the most stable relationship in the family by a long shot. My approach to partnership had always been ‘Whatever my parents did, do the opposite.’ So far, so good. 

“Yeah, Ma! Everything looks bomb! But we’re only eight people. You cooked enough for an army.” My youngest brother’s eyes reflect the turkey legs like a cartoon character. 

“And there was more! I’m just realizing I forgot the mashed potatoes.” 

“Meh,” my older brother shrugs, slinging his arm over his wife’s chair, “We’ve got the sweet potatoes and the potato wedges. We don’t need mashed.” 

I feel a small shudder brush my arm as my sister, the youngest, bursts into tears, her sob startling the entire table. 

“No mashed potatoes?” she whispers, trying to steady herself.

We stare back in surprise. Of all the changes to our Thanksgiving traditions, this is the potato that broke the camel’s back? 

She swipes at her eyes, looking just as startled as the rest of us at her outburst. 

“It’s just that I like to eat them in the same bite as my salad. You all make fun of me, and—excuse me.” As if in a trance, she stands and leaves the table. 

We stare at each other for a moment.

“Should I talk to her?” My mom asks, to no one in particular. 

“No. Let me.” My second brother sets down his napkin and gives me a knowing look—a look is all that’s needed for some siblings. We fall in that category.  

I narrow my eyes at him, continuing our voiceless conversation—

Don’t get her too high 

        Relax, this ain’t my first time 

Open the window

        Obvi, but follow behind with the spray 

Duh 

I make a mental note to find them in five minutes. 

“Well, maybe I’ll just go boil some potatoes.” My mom stands, attempting to fix the wrong problem. 

“This is stupid,” the new guy grumbles as he grabs his Stella and flips on the TV. 

What’s ‘stupid’ is having a television in a dining room, I think. 

I let myself fall into a fantasy where I take the one—no, two—types of potatoes and fling them onto everything and everyone in sight. In my daydream, the potatoes cover the table, the walls, our faces. Potatoes smear down our cheeks and necks, spilling out our mouths. A circle of people choking on the words they never say. Now the room looks the way it feels: heavy and messy. 

It’s a good thing she’s making the mashed. We’re going to need a third potato.