Not My Daughter

'Mom needs a bigger kitchen,' said Kate, then yelped, 'Not in there!' as her son headed for the dining room. 'Everything is set.'

'I'm just trying to clear out the kitchen. Where do you want me?'

Kate pointed him toward a stool at the counter, though there was barely an inch of free space, what with the bowl of yams that would soon be a casserole, boxes of crackers for the guacamole, and platters of cookies and cakes. 'Hold that dish in your hand, Michael Mello, and not another word, please. Will, this kitchen is too small,' she told her husband as he put the turkey in the oven.

He straightened, smiled. 'What happened to cozy?'

'I don't know. What did? Cozy is cute. This isn't cute.'

He put an arm around her and gave her a squeeze-just enough of a reminder of what she had that was pretty darn good. Then Mary Kate wandered in and reached for the milk, an innocent gesture, but enough to remind Kate that things would be less good with a new baby coming. A new baby would make the kitchen smaller and the dining room more crowded. They were bursting at the seams already. How long before an explosion?

Seams… dreams… same difference, she thought and, feeling slightly frantic, began rummaging through the papers stuck into cookbooks crammed above the stove for the recipe Sunny had given her for a chocolate pecan pie.

Sunny knew her mother-in-law's kitchen inside and out, with good reason. She had been the one to set it up when, after years of renting, her in-laws had bought the town house they had dreamed about. Dan helped with the down payment; Sunny helped with the decor. Though in their late sixties, Martha and Hank were still both working and perfectly capable of managing their daily lives, but Sunny liked helping them out. Her mother-in-law had come to count on her for advice on what to wear to local events, where to vacation in March, whether to take vitamin D supplements, and Sunny was flattered. She saw this as a validation that she was worthy of being consulted, proof that she was Normal with that capital N.

Normal was definitely the way to go. Immersing herself in what she did best, she had baked every evening that week, then loaded the back of her car with all of the makings for Thanksgiving dinner not only for her own four and Martha and Hank, but for Dan's brother and his family and two elderly aunts. By noon on Thursday, Martha's kitchen was smelling of roasted turkey, mulled cider, and squash bisque. Ceramic bowls were neatly lined on the counter awaiting the soup; matching mugs awaited the cider. Serving dishes, stacked now, would hold the turkey fixings. And the dining room table was a sight to behold.

Everything went off like clockwork. The turkey reached the right temperature at the right time and carved like a dream, while the asparagus, yams, and onions were cooked to perfection. Dan poured the drinks; Hank said the blessing; Sunny ladled bisque from a Perry & Cass tureen. There was a brief silence, followed by a chorus of yums and mmms.

'You've outdone yourself, Sunny,' said Martha. 'This is delicious.'

Sunny basked in the praise. And it kept coming through the main course, right up to the desserts. That was when Jessica, taking advantage of a lull in the conversation, rapped her knife against her glass and stood.

'I have an announcement to make,' she said. Sunny stared at her in horror, but if Jessica felt the stare, she paid no attention. 'The family is growing,' she announced. 'We'll have another member next Thanksgiving.'

Martha gasped. 'You're engaged?'

Jessica shook her head.

'Well, that's good,' her grandmother remarked. 'You're far too young.' She turned excitedly to Sunny and Dan. 'You're having another baby?'

Sunny might have nodded, if Jessica hadn't quickly said, 'Not Mom. Me.'

'You?'

'Jessica,' Sunny warned. Someone asked if it was true, and she said, 'No-'

'Yes,' Jessica declared.

'Dan,' Sunny pleaded, but anything he might have said was lost in a flurry of questions. Deciding that her daughter was positively hateful, Sunny grabbed an empty pie plate, fled to the kitchen, and began washing pans, but snippets of conversation rose above the clank and splash. She was scrubbing the roaster with a furious force when her mother-in-law joined her at the sink.

'She's only seventeen, Sunny. Do you think she's old enough to have a child?'

'Absolutely not!'

'But you're letting her do it anyway?'

Sunny put down the sponge. 'Letting her? She didn't ask my permission. And now it's done. This isn't a dress you can buy and return.' Hearing the bite in her voice, she said by way of apology, 'This is very upsetting for me. I don't know why she felt she needed to tell you all today.' But Sunny did. It was to shame her mother.

'She seems to think it's exciting.'

'She is deliberately baiting me, because she knows how angry I am.'

'And wanting no part of the boy?' Martha went on sadly. 'What is the trouble with children today? They do things our children wouldn't have dared to do. It isn't enough to steal a pencil from the five-and-dime or hide a pack of cigarettes. Well, the difference is, I guess, we were home.'

'Home?'

'I didn't start working until the children were grown.'

Uneasy with her mother-in-law's inference, Sunny said, 'Because back then, women didn't have careers.'

'Maybe it was better that way. I'm not sure you can do both well. This is a perfect example.'

'Do you think it wouldn't have happened if I'd been at home?' Sunny asked in dismay. 'She didn't do this at home, Mom. She isn't allowed to bring boys upstairs. But she's seventeen, she's driving, she's out of the house all day long.'

'Now she is. But not always.'

No. There had been a period of time when a babysitter had watched Jessica and Darcy after school. 'That sitter was in her fifties. She was totally responsible.'

'She wasn't you.' Martha sighed. 'Oh, Sunny. What's done is done. I think you raised your children the best way you knew how.'

Not exactly an endorsement. 'But it wasn't good enough?'

Martha didn't have to reply. The look she gave Sunny spoke of Disappointment with a capital D.

Susan had a love-hate relationship with Thanksgiving. She loved being with Kate and her family, loved the noise and the warmth. What she hated was coming home afterward and missing her parents. After all, what was Thanksgiving about if not family?

Pam's annual open house was usually a distraction. Held in the early evening and offering light hors d'oeuvres after a large midday meal, it could go on until eleven at night, usually leaving Susan little time to brood.

This year, though, Susan didn't go. Oh, she had quickly accepted when the invitation arrived, but that was before news of Lily's pregnancy leaked out. Since then, Pam hadn't mentioned the open house. When Susan called her Wednesday to bow out, Pam said all the right things-I don't care what people think, I can certainly understand how you feel, I'll miss you-but she didn't insist that Susan come.

So, at six that evening, with Lily still at Mary Kate's, Susan found herself home alone. She turned on the television, then turned it off. She opened her work folder, then closed it. She picked up one knitting project after another, but none appealed to her.

Aimless, she wandered through the house. It was a fine house, a testament to how far she had come. When she bought it, she had sent her parents a picture, but that note, like so many before and after, went unanswered.

At the door to Lily's room, she stopped. Lily hadn't apologized for her outburst in front of Rick, but Susan saw small attempts to atone. The bed was made, her clothes were hung, and the desktop litter neatened.

Hadn't Susan done the same? In the months before being sent away, she had been the perfect daughter-helpful and neat, respectful to a fault. She hadn't argued, hadn't tried to get her father to change his mind. His word was gospel, and she the sinner. If she had accused him of being cruel, would anything be different?

At Lily's dresser, Susan fingered the sock her daughter was knitting. Strikingly, it blended seed stitch and cables in a pattern Susan had never knit herself. Feeling a moment's pride, she lifted the sock to admire the back side, which was when she noted the stitches on the working needles. The sheer number puzzled her-way too many for a