Celebrations are another big fat no for me. There’s something about putting myself in a positive situation that seems wrong ever since Mom died.

I called Dad and Renn to wish them a happy holiday. Renn didn’t answer but sent a terse text message. Dad did answer, and he sounded like he’d rather talk with an IRS agent than with me.

With Loki in my lap, a half-empty bowl of popcorn under my arm, and RuPaul’s Drag Race on the TV, I tell myself that I’m not the only one who is not celebrating this evening. Take Dom, for instance. He skipped going to his parents’ in Dover and is working a double shift at the hospital.

I think about all the nurses, doctors, truck drivers, police officers, and firefighters, of all the essential workers, then take a deep breath and get over myself.

Still, I can’t seem to concentrate on the show. Even when Loki stands up and headbutts me, demanding to be adored.

Rubbing at his nose with one finger, I pick up my phone and scroll through the last few text messages I’ve received.

Pippa: Happy Thanksgiving, bitch (yup, still here, waiting for you to get over yourself. Call me).

Dad: Say Hi to Nora’s parents from us.

About that. I couldn’t tell him I was going to sit around moping all by myself today. So I may have told him a teeny-tiny white lie.

Dom: Work’s good. There’s a potluck and some restaurants dropped treats for the patients, which is nice. How’s it going for you?

Dom: Needless to say, there is one thing I’m particularly grateful for this year . . .

Ever: Is that so . . . ?

Dom: Your daily glazed doughnuts, of course.

I DoorDash him one doughnut every day, even though the treat costs less than the delivery fee. There’s something very uplifting about doing something nice for someone else. I can see how doing charity could be addicting.

I’m rising from the couch to put the popcorn bowl into the sink when there’s a knock on the door. Since Nora and I don’t have a buzzer, delivery people usually leave our mail at the door. But I don’t think anyone is delivering anything at eleven at night on Thanksgiving Eve, and my mind starts to fill with gory scenarios starring a serial killer. Preying on lonely women on Thanksgiving is low, even for psychopaths. A line should be drawn somewhere, right?

Before I figure out what I want to do, there’s another knock on the door. I rush to the kitchen, drop the bowl, take out a kitchen knife, and tuck it in the waistband of my sweatpants.

Tiptoeing to the door, I ask, “Who is it?”

There’s a beat of silence.

“An axe murderer. Open up.”

I smile, my whole body sagging with relief. “Sorry, Mr. Slayer, no one’s home.”