Chapter 2
688 Words
Our family had one tradition that never changed.
Sunday dinner.
Everyone attended.
The dining table was a twelve-seat walnut table.
The seating arrangement never changed.
Dad sat at the head.
Mom, Ethan, Caleb, and Madison sat along the sides.
Then came the guinea pig.
Buttons had a custom high chair beside Madison.
Its cage faced the dinner table.
My mother said it helped Buttons "feel included in the family atmosphere."
Max lay beside Ethan on his own memory-foam bed.
Mochi had a cushioned chair next to Caleb.
Three pets.
Three designated spots.
Me?
I sat at the very end on a folding chair.
One of those cheap metal folding chairs you'd pull out of a garage.
Wedged into the corner.
Too far from the table to reach most dishes.
Every time I wanted food, I had to half-stand and stretch.
On Thanksgiving, I arrived early.
I moved my folding chair between Madison and the guinea pig.
I thought—
It's a holiday.
Surely I deserve a real seat more than a guinea pig.
At six-thirty everyone sat down.
Dad noticed.
Said nothing.
Mom sat down, frowned, and said,
"Riley, move back to your seat."
"Mom, it's Thanksgiving. My back hurts sitting on that folding chair."
"That's Buttons' spot. It's used to sitting there."
Used to it.
A guinea pig was used to a seat.
Therefore I had to give it up.
Madison exploded first.
"Buttons gets stressed if things change! It's never sat anywhere else!"
Caleb adjusted his glasses.
"Come on, sis. It's one dinner."
Ethan said,
"Hurry up. The turkey's getting cold. Max is hungry."
Dad said,
"Listen to your mother."
Five people.
Five comments.
Not one thought it was strange that the guinea pig got the high chair while their daughter sat on a folding chair.
Mom was already giving me that look.
The one that said:
Why are you wasting everyone's time over something so trivial?
I opened my mouth.
I wanted to say:
I'm not fighting a guinea pig for a chair.
I just want to sit among my family.
But who would've cared?
"Fine," I said.
I carried the folding chair back to the corner.
The Thanksgiving table overflowed with roasted turkey, mashed sweet potatoes, and cranberry sauce.
The smell never quite reached me.
They talked about Ethan's new esports contract.
Caleb's research data.
Madison's sponsorship deals.
Every now and then Mom glanced down at Buttons.
"Aww, look at that appetite today."
Ethan fed Max a piece of turkey.
Caleb cradled Mochi and shared salmon prepared by the chef.
I sat on my folding chair eating bread.
If I couldn't reach a dish, I simply didn't eat it.
Then everyone took turns sharing what they were grateful for.
Dad was grateful for his new investment fund.
Mom was grateful for a successful surgery.
Ethan was grateful for winning a championship.
Caleb was grateful for his latest paper.
Madison was grateful for ten million followers—
and Buttons.
Before it got to me, the turkey arrived.
The tradition quietly ended.
After dinner, I cleaned up.
As Mom headed upstairs she called out without turning around.
"Riley, bring in the packages by the door. Buttons' new cage arrived. Max's dog food too. And Mochi's canned food."
I carried the boxes through the living room.
On the coffee table sat the family's annual photo book.
Page one:
Dad ringing the Nasdaq bell.
Page two:
Mom receiving an award.
Page three:
Ethan holding a trophy.
Page four:
Caleb standing in front of MIT.
Page five:
Madison posing with Buttons.
Page six:
Family portrait.
Five people.
Three pets.
No me.
I closed the book.
Filled the dog-food container.
Organized the cat food.
Assembled the guinea pig cage.
Then returned to my room.
A converted attic storage space facing north.
About a hundred square feet.
Slanted ceiling.
Freezing in winter.
An oven in summer.
On the other side of the wall was Buttons' dedicated guinea pig room.
Climate controlled.
Humidified.
Twenty-four-hour monitoring.
Lying in bed, I could hear the hum of the humidifier next door.
I turned off the light.
Went to sleep.
Said nothing.
Because nobody cared anyway.
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