Dad’s little house sat at the end of a gravel road, smoke curling from the chimney. I carried the first tray to the porch and knocked. He opened the door in his clean flannel shirt, saw the food, and frowned. “Walt, what in the world did you do?” I smiled. “Brought Thanksgiving to you, Dad.” He stood there speechless, then stepped aside, and I began carrying in every dish.

By the time the table was full, my phone had buzzed fourteen times. Then headlights swept across the yard. Diane’s father, Gordon, climbed out of a polished sedan, looking furious, with Diane’s mother close behind. They marched to the porch, and Gordon pointed at me. “Young man, you have embarrassed this entire family.” Dad quietly stepped forward, wiping his hands on a rag. Gordon’s eyes landed on him, and his face went completely white.