We brought a veggie log. My mother surveyed the brown lump, not bothering to hide her distaste. She took a tiny bite, fake-grimaced.

The Tofurky wasn’t bad, which I knew infuriated her. She’d spent the past 12 hours cooking: basting the bird, mashing sweet potatoes, preparing homemade stuffing, and baking two pumpkin pies because the first was runny.

Why won’t you eat turkey? she asked Greg, who she didn’t like and who she knew was wrong for me.

It’s high in sodium and fat. Lots of artery-clogging cholesterol. Plus, in factory farms turkeys are crowded together so tightly they can’t flap a wing or stretch a leg. To prevent them from fighting, their beaks are sliced off. When they’re slaughtered, they’re hung upside down and dunked into electrified water, which doesn’t always stun them, then dragged over blades... 

Enough, I interrupted.

We’d only dated for three weeks—if you could call sex and a couple of coffees he paid for dating. But there was no one else at the moment. And I refused to show up alone. There needed to be something between her and me—a buffer. Greg, with his ponytail and factory horror stories, would have to do. 

He was a talker. At dinner, he discussed important books he’d read, artsy movies he’d seen—not caring that we didn’t know what they were about. He related his experiences teaching writing to college freshmen who couldn’t tell the difference between they’re and their. A sliver of veggie log was lodged between his front teeth, which neither of us pointed out. 

After, while Greg watched football in the living room, my mother asked for help with the dishes. There was no polite way to decline. Besides, I wanted to get it over with. As I rolled up my sleeves, she started in:

What’s your father up to?

Does he have a new job?

Who’s he been seeing?

Is he still with that guy at the gym? The personal trainer.

Dad doesn’t confide in yours truly, I replied and although it was true, I didn’t sound convincing.

Plunging my hands into soapy water, I scoured a saucepan extra hard. The water was so hot, my forearms turned red. 

Who is this Greg person? 

He’s nobody.

A month earlier I could have brought Alex to dinner. Before him there was Scott, David, Peter C., Peter L., Vincent, somebody whose name was Raul but insisted on being called Rafer. I changed men as easily as changing socks.   

Do you think you’ll marry him?

I’m never getting married.  

My mother waved her dishtowel dramatically in my direction. Don’t let our mistakes infect your life. 

Too late, I said, smiling. 

She reached for me, the wet towel cradling my neck. She smelled of turkey brine and cheap magnolia perfume.  

You know I love you. You know that, right? 

I rested my chin on her shoulder, trapped in her embrace. If only I could stretch my leg, flap a wing.