25. Chew or Choke

When did holiday dinners start feeling like interrogations?

“Cancel culture has gone too far,” Gammie huffs. “All my friends’ grandkids are cutting them off. Why? Because they voted differently? They’re ungrateful, is what they are.”

I plaster on another fake smile, brittle and tight. If I open my mouth, nothing kind will come out.

I’m wedged between my “progressive” grandmother, my white-savior uncle, and across from a grandfather whose entire personality is being a retired cop.

When I complained to my mom about the seating chart, she said,

“Oh Andy, they never get to see you! It’s just dinner. You can suck it up for some poor old people. What’s the harm?”

To my sanity, Mom. That’s the harm.

Jay slings an arm behind me, casual like he owns the space. I fight not to tense—

I fail.

“Y’know, kid,” he starts, full dad mode activated, “Your mom says you’ve been working these crazy hours. That’s not sustainable. You barely have time for family anymore. We never see you.”

Maybe if this family didn’t disown each other every other decade, I could believe he actually cares.

But he does, in his way. It’s just the kind of care that makes you question yourself first. That’s not love. That’s leverage.

“I’m fine, Jay,” I say, shifting forward to avoid his arm. “You know how it is—working your way up the ladder.”

He doesn’t. He’s always been very proud of the fact that no one knows what he actually does. Not even him. And now he and his wife have both retired at forty-five. Living off vibes, a disability check, and sheer audacity.

Amber slaps Jay lightly on the arm while I’m shoveling mashed potatoes into my mouth. Maybe if I clean my plate I can escape. But probably not. 

“Oh leave her alone,” Amber scolds her husband. She always follows Jay with a cushion. Like if she says it sweet enough, I’ll forget the bruise underneath.

“She’s got a lot on her plate, that job plus her boyfriend?” She leans forward to catch my eyes, and I’m too slow to avoid it. “You’re doing just fine, sweetie.” 

I swallow hard and almost choke. Of course. Reassurance from the woman who’s never listened to a thing I’ve said.

“Actually,” I say, deciding to rip the bandaid off. “Nate and I broke up.” 

Gasps ripple around the table. I close my eyes. Count to three. 

“You broke up?” my grandpa hollers. 

“Yeah, Poppy,” I say, smiling like I’m not grinding my teeth. “It just wasn’t working out.”

“Well, a pretty thing like you must have a line of boys lining up,” Amber soothes. “So, have you gone on any decent dates since?” 

“Yeah,” Poppy jumps in. “When am I getting a grandson?” 

Every time, I think. 

"Actually,” I say, stabbing a slice of ham. “Men don’t seem to be very conducive to my peace these days.”

Beside me, Jay bristles. 

“Well remember, it’s not all men. Generalizations are never helpful.” 

I can’t hold back a snort. 

“Something funny?” Jay presses. “I didn’t fight in Egypt to be lumped in with ‘all men.’” 

And now he’s on a roll. Great. A stem of broccoli snaps between my molars. 

“I’ve got scars up and down my body from protecting people—women. I need a wheelchair just to get around Cedar Point. But sure, I’m part of ‘all.’” 

He huffs and goes back to sawing through his ham. 

I set my fork and knife down, slow and deliberate. 

I turn to face him, channeling the still, cutting energy Miranda uses to dismantle an entire room with a single speech. No yelling. Just truth, sharpened like a blade.

“You’re a part of ‘all,’” I say, holding onto whatever calm I’ve got. “Because men don’t wear labels. There’s no uniform separating the guy who helps me carry a heavy bag from the one who jerks off at me on the train.”

“Now look here,” Jay interjects, but I’m on a roll. 

“You’re a part of ‘all’ because even though it’s men who do the most harm, women are the ones who have to take the responsibility. Don’t walk alone. Don’t drink too much. Don’t wear the wrong thing. Choose better men. Be smarter. Be smaller. Be safe. We live in fear here, not Egypt. Not a war zone. Not some distant ‘over there.’ Here. Cincinnati. Because we’re never safe. Not at work, not on the sidewalk, not on dates, not in our homes. Not even at this table. And when, not if, we’re in a bad situation, we don’t get disability checks. We’re told we were asking for it, or stupid for not protecting ourselves.” 

“Andy,” Amber reaches across the table for my hand. “You’re taking it wrong. He didn’t mean–”

I wrench my hand away. “And when we try to talk about the real issue, the fact that we live in a society that promotes men’s systemic violence against women, we’re deflected with ‘But it's not all men,’ as if that changes the fact that ex-boyfriends feel like they can just grab you, and only let you go when they realize there are cameras.” 

I fold my napkin and put it beside my mostly full plate. 

“It’s easy to say ‘not all men’ when you’re desperate to feel like one of the good ones. But what you’re really saying is—you’re not listening. You just want to be exempt. And that means you can’t be trusted either.”

I push my chair back and stand, my hands shaking but my voice steady when I say, 

“I’m going for a walk.” 

I leave the table, ignoring the various voices calling me back. 

The rush of cold air against my cheeks is a welcome distraction as I swing back and forth.

The playground is deserted. It’s Christmas, after all. Nothing says holiday cheer like torching a family dinner with feminist rage.

Why couldn’t you just let it go, Andy? 

A few swings go by while I search for an answer. 

I’ve never enjoyed Jay and Amber. Hell, most of my extended family makes me feel like an alien. And maybe I should care. Maybe one dinner shouldn’t be that hard. But it was.

No predator enjoys feeling trapped, I muse. A wolf might chew her own paw off to escape.

Is that what I’m doing? 

I think about my twenty-odd years of interactions with Jay, Amber, Gammie, and Poppy. I’m not sure I’ve ever walked away from any of them feeling good about myself. 

My dad’s side of the family isn’t like that. They might not understand my dreams. But they don’t make me feel small.

I let out a tired laugh, breath fogging in front of me.

Small. Like with Nate. Like with Lily, when I needed understanding she didn’t want to give. Like Nigel, when the mask slips and his insecurity lashes out sideways.

I know what I want to do–what I need to do–but I can barely think it without hearing my mom’s voice. 

“But they’re family! You don’t do that to family.” 

But … they’d done it to us. To me. 

First Gammie, when she decided we’d slighted her in some way, and the last time I saw her for a good decade was at my tenth birthday. 

Then Jay and Amber, when Poppy apparently decided my mom wasn’t a good enough daughter, and we should be cut off. And they just … believed him. 

They cut us off for petty, pointless reasons. Can I set a boundary for my own peace? 

I think about Miranda. What would she do? 

I can’t imagine her letting anyone into her life who can’t prove they belong there. Ridiculous imaginings of how Miranda would’ve handled Christmas dinner with my family bring a smile to my face, and I can’t help the giggle that bursts out of me on the top arc of my swing. 

My humor falls on the way down. I gently slow the pumping of my legs, letting the swing drift to a stop. My feet drag in the sand. 

I know what I need to do. 

I know I’ll feel better after I do it. Not right away. But eventually.

I’m just not sure I’m brave enough to do it.

I hang my head and let out a sigh. 

Chewing off your own paw hurts like hell. But it’s still better than dying in the trap.

Being an adult is hard. But being responsible to yourself? That’s harder.

I don’t have to do it tonight, I tell myself. For a few moments, maybe a few days, I can avoid it. 

I sit on the swing, not swinging, until my fingers start to go numb. And then I sit a few minutes more before finally leaving the playground and making my way back home. 

Not that it really feels like home these days.