Inside, I clocked the table. Every place had a printed name card in calligraphy. It felt less like a family dinner and more like a coronation. I found my spot across from Nick, next to Uncle Carl (who once described his spinal surgery while I carved turkey).

Laura made a point of walking me to my chair—an old wooden number that looked hauled from someone’s attic. “This was my grandma’s,” she announced. “Solid cherry. Worth a small fortune. I wanted you to sit in it, sweetie. I know how you love antiques.”

I don’t. IKEA is my love language. But I sat.

The chair moaned, then gave out like someone kicked its knees. I hit the floor. Pain shot up my spine, embarrassment flooded my face, and time slowed to the sound of clinking cutlery.