The Thanksgiving turkey sat in the center of the mahogany table like a bronzed trophy. It was surrounded by sides that cost more than my first car: truffle-infused mashed potatoes, heirloom carrots glazed in manuka honey, and a vintage Cabernet that breathed in a Baccarat crystal decanter.

I knew exactly how much it cost. I knew because the notification from American Express had vibrated against my thigh three hours ago: $12,400 – Wolfgang Catering Services.

“This spread is magnificent, Bella,” my mother, Constance, purred. She swirled her wine, the diamond on her finger catching the light of the chandelier. “You truly have the touch of a CEO. Everything you do is world-class. Isn’t it, Robert?”

My father, Robert, grunted his agreement around a mouthful of stuffing. “Absolutely. It’s good to see someone in this family has ambition. The house looks beautiful, sweetheart.”

Bella sat at the head of the table, preening. She was wearing a silk dress that I had paid for, in a house whose mortgage I covered, eating food I had bought.

“Oh, stop,” Bella laughed, a tinkling, false sound. “It’s nothing. My startup had a killer quarter. I wanted to treat you guys. You deserve the best.”

I sat in the corner of the room at a flimsy card table set up near the kitchen door. The “kids’ table,” though the only child present was my six-year-old daughter, Lily. I was thirty-two years old, but in this house, I was not an adult. I was an accessory to the furniture.

“Mommy,” Lily whispered, tugging on the sleeve of her faded sweater. “Can I have some of the sparkly juice?”

“That’s wine, baby,” I whispered back, cutting her dry turkey. “And we have apple juice in the car.”

“Why can’t we sit there?” Lily asked, her big brown eyes fixed on the velvet-upholstered chairs at the main table. There were two empty seats.

“Because those seats are for important people,” I said, my voice tight.