CRANDI

On Thanksgiving My Uncle Blocked The Door And Said You Re Not Family

Crandi Man
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on thanksgiving my uncle blocked the door and said you re not family

Thanksgiving was always a weird holiday for me. I’m Ryan, 27, and for most of my life, I’ve kind of felt like the background character in my own family. Not hated, just tolerated. My sister Jenna was the golden child, my mom’s mini-me, perfect grades, perfect fiancé, the whole deal. Meanwhile, I was the quiet one, the artist, the one who, according to my Uncle Steve, “never really grew up.” Every year he hosts Thanksgiving.

And every year I drag myself there because, well, tradition, right? This year felt different. I hadn’t heard anything about the dinner. No invite, no family group text. At first, I figured maybe they assumed I’d just show up. But then I saw photos on Jenna’s Instagram: the long table already set, the turkey carved, everyone dressed up, laughing.

It was clearly planned. I stared at that picture for a long time. I gave myself every excuse to believe it wasn’t what it looked like. Still, I got in my car and drove to Uncle Steve’s place. It was only twenty minutes away. I told myself if I was wrong, I’d laugh it off and sit down like nothing happened.

But the second I pulled into the driveway, the cold air outside felt warmer than what was waiting for me. Uncle Steve met me at the edge of the driveway. He didn’t even wait for me to get out of the car. He just walked up, arms crossed over his beer belly, that smug little grin on his face. Thanksgiving was always a strange holiday for me. For most of my life, I felt like the background character in my own family.

Not hated, just… tolerated. My sister, Gina, was the golden child, my mother’s mini-me with perfect grades and a fiancé who ticked all the right boxes. I, on the other hand, was the quiet one, the artist, the one who, according to my Uncle Steve, had never really grown up. Uncle Steve loved to say that. He was one of those guys who acts like a sitcom dad but without any of the charm—loud, opinionated, and with a deep love for grilling people over their life choices. And every year, without fail, he hosted Thanksgiving.

Every year, I dragged myself there because, well, tradition, right? But this year felt different. I hadn’t heard anything about dinner. No invitation, no family group text, not even a vague, guilt-tripping reminder from my mom. At first, I assumed they just figured I’d show up, like I always do. That illusion shattered when I saw the photos on Gina’s Instagram.

The long dining table was already perfectly set, the turkey carved and gleaming, and everyone was dressed up, laughing. It was a picture of holiday perfection, and it had clearly been taken before I was even supposed to be there. A cold pit formed in my stomach. It wasn’t a mistake. The invitation wasn’t “lost in the mail.” This was deliberate. Still, a desperate part of me needed to see it for myself.

I got in my car and drove the 20 minutes to my uncle’s house, telling myself that if it was all a misunderstanding, I’d laugh it off and take my seat.

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