Thanksgiving started at the door. Mom looked at my work boots and asked when I would finally stand on my own two feet. I had driven five hours carrying a cedar box built in Grandpa Harlan’s workshop. At sixteen, he had given me a worn four-inch brass level and told me to build things level and never let anyone convince me otherwise. I still carried it.

Inside, Desmond’s photos covered the walls while mine was hidden behind a ceramic angel. Twelve china settings filled the table, but I was given a folding chair and paper plate. Mom called me a freeloader. Dad proudly announced the Aldridge River Bridge project and said Bennett Contracting was nearly finished. I had told them three times that I was the engineer of record, with 412 drawings carrying my seal. They laughed anyway. Then Mom told nineteen relatives that I rented, was divorced, drove a filthy truck, and lived off others. Finally, Dad pushed my box toward me and told me to leave.