Noah was nine—quiet, observant, and far too perceptive for his age. Sitting beside me at the long table in my parents’ home outside Milwaukee, he held himself stiffly, already aware that Grandma favored his cousins and that Aunt Lily’s word “sensitive” wasn’t a compliment. Still, he came. He loved his grandfather’s sweet potatoes and believed, somehow, that holidays could still be good.
I should have protected him.
Dinner looked perfect—too perfect. The turkey gleamed, the stuffing smelled of fresh herbs, the cranberry sauce sparkled in crystal. Then my mother placed a separate dish in front of us: a small roasted chicken.
“Turkey can be dry,” she said sweetly. “This is special—just for you two.”
That should have been my warning.
I took a bite.
Noah took a bite.
Within seconds, the world tilted.
At first, I thought it was dizziness. Then my tongue felt heavy, my fingers slackened, and across from me Noah blinked, swaying.
“Mom?” he whispered.
My fork slipped, clattering against the plate—a sound that still echoes in my mind.
Then he fell.