That November, Ashton finally started walking. Not toddling. Not wobbling. Just... walking. Like he'd been doing it his whole life and had simply decided not to show anyone.
The weekend before Thanksgiving, we'd visited my family and he didn't even attempt to take a step. I swore to everyone, "He's about to walk. I know it." They smiled politely the way people do when they're humoring sleep-deprived mothers.
Then, that Tuesday, he stood up. And he walked.
By Thursday, he was running.
I set him down at Thanksgiving and he took off, straight to Lynn, naturally. His favorite person in the universe. My entire family watched him zoom across the living room like he'd been training for this moment in secret. Jaws dropped. Eyes widened. No one believed me.
"See?" I said smugly. "Told you."
He was the star of Thanksgiving that year.
He loved all the food, mashed potatoes, pie, rolls. He made a mess of it. There was crust in his hair. Gravy on his cheeks. But he was happy. Full-bellied and adored. And for the first time in a long time, I was happy, too.
Thanksgiving in my family always meant a lot of people. My paternal grandmother's family hosted it, her, her siblings, and their kids. They rotated which family hosted every three years, and this year it was my grandma's turn. There were about forty people there. It was loud. It was chaotic. It was perfect.
The food was good no matter whose year it was, but I'll tell you right now: my favorite Thanksgiving years were always when my grandma's tiny German sister-in-law was in charge.
That woman is about the size of a fifth grader and could cook circles around the Food Network. She made everything from scratch. Most of it came from her own garden. She brought Tupperware full of magic. I swear she chopped the onions with ancestral strength. The kind of flavor that hits your soul.
Except for the green beans.
Do not eat the green beans if you're expecting Southern-style. No bacon. No salt. No smoky soul-food goodness. These were sweet. Vinegary. Shiny. They tasted like pickled sadness.
One year, I didn't know. I served myself a whole scoop. One bite in and I immediately regretted my life. But I was raised never to waste food, so I had to eat every damn bite. Now I warn everyone, including my children. "If it looks like green beans, but smells like salad dressing, run."
Funny enough, Ashton loved them. Of course he did. My child, the green bean traitor.
Dessert came next. Pies for days. All homemade. The kind of pies that make you rethink your religion. But in our family, you had to finish your dinner before you were allowed a slice.
I remember one year, I was maybe eight, I was determined to get to the pie table. I ate every bite of food on my plate. Cleaned it with military precision. Rushed to the table. Found the biggest slice. But there was no whipped cream. What is pie without whipped cream?
So I ran into the kitchen and saw my great aunt whipping something white and fluffy in a bowl.
Without asking, I scooped a heaping spoonful onto my pie and ran back to the table, victorious.
One bite in, and I nearly vomited.
It wasn't whipped cream. It was cream cheese.
Raw. Thick. Unsweetened. Just a mountain of pure dairy sabotage.
I tried to tell my mom it tasted wrong. She rolled her eyes and said, "You served it to yourself. You're eating it." Then she took a bite and went, "Oh. That's cream cheese. But you're still eating it."
I had to finish the whole thing. A full cup of unsweetened whipped cream cheese on top of fruit pie. It took me years to eat cream cheese again. I'm not kidding, I couldn't touch cheesecake until I was in my mid-twenties. Even now, if it's plain or I smell it too strong, I gag a little.
Thanksgiving trauma comes in many forms.
That Christmas, like the one before, we didn't do gifts for each other. We didn't buy anything for Ashton either. But he didn't need anything. He was already spoiled, by family, by love, by sheer toddler joy.
And my mom?
My mom showed up like Santa Claus in sweatpants.
She's always been that way. Quietly generous.90% of my kids' clothes come from her, usually snagged at garage sales for a quarter apiece. People talk about village parenting. My mom is the village. She's been that steady presence from the beginning, giving and giving even when I never asked.
That year, she got Ashton two giant boxes of diapers.And she bought another giant box for my daughter, who wasn't even born yet.She was already preparing. Already loving her.
She bought me a new winter coat.Because I needed one.Because I couldn't afford it.Because she noticed.
She gave us paper towels, toilet paper, laundry soap, the boring stuff you don't realize you're about to run out of until your life is already on fire.And she didn't just do it for me.She did it for Marie and her husband, too.
Very practical gifts.But gifts nonetheless.
That's who my mom is.
She doesn't show love with big speeches. She shows it with bags of groceries and boxes of baby wipes. With hand-me-down jeans and a coat that actually zips all the way up. With the things that make your life a little easier, so you can keep going without breaking.
Because even though my marriage was quietly imploding in the background…Even though I was still sleeping next to someone who made me feel small…
My son was loved. And my family was slowly becoming safe again.
And for the first time in a long time, I could feel pieces of myself returning. Not all at once. But enough to keep going.