“Have you lost weight?” asked Abby. “Not that you need to.”

“You look good, dude,” said Dane, who’d been integrated into our family and was catching up with our demented strategies.

“If that fancy-schmancy little Prince-Stick-Up-His-Tuchus could see you now, he’d be sorry,” said Miriam, causing everyone to yell, “MIRIAM!”

We crowded into the dining room, around the elegant table; my mother’s holiday tablescapes are the true spark for my career choice. Tonight she’d premiered a new set of dishes, painted with bold oversize daisies, to honor my re-blooming. None of this related to the Pilgrims’ early meal with their Indigenous guests, but as my mother said, “If those Pilgrims had been Jewish, everything would have looked much nicer.”

“It looks gorgeous,” I told her.

“Are these new?” wondered Miriam, admiring her dinner plate.

“I found them online,” said my mom. “They’re from Finland.”

Except for boyfriends, imported is always better.

“Pish pish,” said Miriam, which was her most profound compliment, finessed with an unspoken, “Do we trust Finland?”

“Before we begin,” said my dad, passing out an essay he’d written and then copied on his printer, “I’d like to share my thoughts on the historical facts of this holiday, which was most likely inspired by a religious harvest festival of the Protestant Reformation. Relations between Governor Bradford of the Massachusetts Bay colony and the Pequot tribe were in truth plagued by violence, particularly on the part of the colonists.”

“I did not know that,” said Dane, taking an essay.

There was an incessant knocking at the front door.

“I hope that’s not Governor Bradford,” commented Miriam as my mom went to find out who was dropping by. “I would not let him in my house.”

There was urgent conversation from the foyer, and then Edgar’s security team trooped into the dining room and took up positions along the walls.

“It’s good to see you, Carter,” said Charles.

“We’ve missed you,” said Terry.

“Even your sweaters,” added Clark.

What was going on? For a heartbeat I wondered if Edgar was here, and I was sure Abby was thinking the same thing. But why was he descending on Piscataway? Had he changed his mind about everything? Or was he returning something I’d left behind in my rush to leave the palace—I’d never recovered my favorite bodywash or my workout gloves, all of which I’d quickly replaced.

But instead of Edgar, Queen Catherine entered grandly, in a lime green silk coat dress with matching shoes and bag and a hat with lime green velvet roses, all of which complemented my mom’s tablescape.

But what was the queen doing in our dining room, in Piscataway, on Thanksgiving? Everyone was staring at her in silence, which was the first time in recorded history that my family has stopped talking.

“Your Majesty?” my dad finally intoned, holding out an essay.