The text arrived on a Tuesday evening as I was peeling off my scrubs after a twelve-hour shift in the ER. I remember the exact moment because my hands were still trembling slightly from the adrenaline of saving a car accident victim. The screen lit up with my husband's name, and for a brief moment, I smiled. Then I read the message.
"Mom says Thanksgiving is going to be family-only this year. She thinks it would be best if you visited your parents instead."
I stared at those words, reading them over and over, the hospital's antiseptic smell still clinging to my skin as the meaning sank in. Family-only. But I was family. I had been married to Mike for nearly three years. Or at least, I thought I was family.
That's when I realized what Patricia Anderson really meant. Anderson family only. Old money. Proper connections. The right background. And despite the gold band on my finger, I would never truly qualify.
My name is Jessica Miller, and this is the story of how my wealthy in-laws banned me from their Thanksgiving table, told me I wasn't "their kind" of person, and how everything changed when they finally met my parents.
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The first time I met Patricia Anderson, she looked me up and down with the practiced eye of someone appraising a questionable purchase. I was still in my nursing uniform, having come directly from my shift to meet Mike's parents for dinner. Her perfectly manicured hand extended toward mine, but her smile never quite reached her eyes.
"So you're the nurse," she said, emphasizing the word in a way that made my profession sound like a curious hobby rather than a calling that had required years of education and training.
"Trauma nurse," I corrected gently, trying to ignore the way Mike tensed beside me. "I work in the emergency department at Boston General."