Thanksgiving that year was supposed to be simple—just the four of us, a quiet dinner, no drama. I was setting the table with Grandma’s china when the doorbell rang. Mom shouted for someone else to get it. Charlie ignored her. Dad, wiping his hands on a rag, opened the door.
Outside stood a man. His voice was soft, tired.
“Sorry to bother you… do you have any food you could spare?”
I froze. Mom stiffened. A homeless man on Thanksgiving—exactly the kind of situation no one wants to face.
Dad hesitated, conflicted. “He’s starving.”
Mom’s response was immediate. “Give him money or leftovers. Do not invite him inside.”
But Dad wasn’t having it. “He isn’t dangerous. He apologized, asked politely, and he’s wearing a wedding ring. He’s someone who had a life before this.”
I suggested a compromise: “Maybe just pack a plate?”
Dad shook his head. “You’re comfortable. That’s different.”
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