The clatter of silverware on the table seemed deafening. Margaret stared at her brother, Daniel, across the Thanksgiving feast, his face illuminated by the flickering candlelight. A prayer shawl lay draped casually over the back of his chair, a stark contrast to the familiar floral tablecloth. Her throat felt tight, as if a small, cold hand was gripping it. He’d announced his conversion to Judaism just moments ago, and the comfortable rhythm of their family holiday had shattered.
She picked at the stuffing on her plate, the once-savory aroma now nauseating. Her mother had asked, “But what about Christmas, dear?” Daniel had merely smiled, a placid expression that only heightened her unease. The way he kept smiling, like he was in on some secret she wasn't privy to, made her feel like she was standing on shifting ground.
The rest of the family had seemed to take it in stride; her father had even chuckled, claiming Daniel was just being Daniel. Margaret didn’t laugh. She needed air, to step away from the weight that was suddenly pressing down on her chest.
She abruptly stood, mumbled something about needing a refill on her water, and fled the dining room. The cool air of the hallway did little to ease the feeling of being turned inside out.