StoriesBlog “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I’m David.”
“Rob Mitchell,” Dad shook his hand. “This is my wife, Jennifer. My daughter, Lauren. My son, Charlie.”
Charlie had appeared in the hallway. Staring. Wide-eyed.
Mom forced a smile. “Hello, David.”
“Ma’am?” David nodded respectfully. “I really appreciate this. I haven’t… It’s been a while since I had a real meal.”
“Of course,” Mom’s voice was strained. “Rob, why don’t you show David where he can wash up?”
“Good idea. David, the bathroom’s down the hall. Take your time.”
David hesitated. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”
“You’re not trouble,” Dad said firmly. “You’re our guest.”
David nodded and walked down the hall. Once he was gone, Mom grabbed Dad’s arm.
“What are you doing?” she hissed.
“The right thing.”
“The right thing? Rob, we have children. Who are watching us. Learning from us.”
“What do you want them to learn?” Dad asked. “That we only help people when it’s comfortable? I want them to learn that we protect our family first.”
“By showing them it’s okay to turn away someone in need?”
Mom opened her mouth. Closed it. She had no answer. I felt sick. Because part of me agreed with Mom. This was weird. Uncomfortable. Wrong. But part of me, a small part, knew Dad was right. I just didn’t want him to be.
Ten minutes later, we were sitting at the table.
David had washed up. His face was cleaner. His hair was still messy, but he’d tried to comb it with his fingers. Dad had lent him a clean shirt. It was too big, but better than the torn jacket. He sat between Charlie and Dad. Across from me and Mom, he looked so out of place. At our table. With our good china. Our nice tablecloth. Our perfect Thanksgiving spread.
Mom brought out the turkey. Dad finished carving the turkey, set down the knife, and looked around the table.
“Before we eat,” he said, “I’d like us to share what we’re grateful for this year. It’s tradition in our family.”
Mom’s eyes widened slightly. We usually did this. Yes. But with a stranger at the table? Dad either didn’t notice her look or chose to ignore it.
“I’ll start,” he said. “I’m grateful for my family. For this home. For the ability to share what we have with others. And I’m grateful for unexpected guests who remind us what Thanksgiving is really about.”
He looked at David when he said that last part.
Mom was next. She cleared her throat. “I’m grateful for… for my family’s safety and health.” Her voice was tight, but sincere.
Charlie went next. “I’m grateful for video games. And for pizza.” He glanced at David, then looked away quickly.
Then it was my turn. Everyone looked at me. I didn’t want to do this. Didn’t want to share something real in front of this stranger. But Dad was waiting. Expectant.
“I’m grateful for…” I paused. What was I supposed to say? “For my family. And for having a nice house. And stuff.”
Lame. So lame. Dad’s disappointment was visible.
Then David spoke. “May I?”
Dad nodded. “Of course.”
David set down his fork. Looked around the table. At each of us.
“I’m grateful,” he said quietly, “for kindness. Real kindness. The kind that says, ‘my home is your home,’ even when it’s hard.”
His voice thickened. “I’m grateful for people who see humanity where others see nothing. Who set an extra place at the table when the easy thing would be to close the door.”
He looked at Dad. Then at Mom. Then at me.
“And I’m grateful for this meal. For this family. For being reminded that I’m still a person. Still worthy of a seat at the table.”
Silence. Mom’s eyes were wet. Charlie was staring at his plate. I felt something crack in my chest. This man. This stranger I’d wanted to turn away. Was grateful just to be seen as human.
Dad reached over. Put his hand on David’s shoulder. “We’re grateful you’re here.”
We passed dishes in silence. Stuffing. Mashed potatoes. Green beans. Cranberry sauce. David took small portions. Polite. Like he didn’t want to take too much.
“Please help yourself,” Dad said. “There’s plenty.”
“This is more than enough, sir. Thank you.”
We started eating. Silence. Just the sound of forks on plates. Chewing. It was the most awkward meal of my life. Charlie kept staring at David. I kicked him under the table. He kicked me back. Mom was barely eating. Just pushing food around her plate. I was eating fast. Trying to get through this as quickly as possible. David ate slowly. Carefully. Like every bite was precious.
“So, David,” Dad said. “Where are you from?”
“Originally, Ohio. But I’ve been in Oregon for thirty years.”
“What brought you here?”
“A teaching job.”
I looked up. “Teaching? You were a teacher?” Dad asked.
“Yes, sir. Elementary school. Fifth grade. For twenty-eight years.”
I glanced at Mom. She looked surprised, too.
“That’s a long career,” Dad said. “What school?”
“Hamilton Elementary. Until 2019.”
“Hamilton?” Dad put down his fork. “I went to Hamilton. A long time ago. ’82 to ’87.”
David looked at Dad. “When were you in fifth grade?”
“1984. Mrs. Ferguson’s class.”
“Mrs. Ferguson retired in ’83. I took over her class.”
Silence. Dad stared at David.
“What’s your last name?” Dad asked.
“Anderson. David Anderson.”
Dad’s face went white. “Mr. Anderson?”
David tilted his head, studying Dad. Then his eyes widened. “Robbie Mitchell? You remember me?”
“Of course I remember you. You were in my first class. The kid who wanted to be an astronaut.”
Dad laughed. Shocked. “I can’t believe… Mr. Anderson. You’re Mr. Anderson.”
“I go by David now.”
“You taught me for two years. Fifth and sixth grade. You were my favorite teacher.”