“Just the Nuclear Family” My Daughter Said About Thanksgiving, So I Drove to California Alone…

The Exclusion and the Decision

My phone buzzed on the kitchen counter, not a call, just a text. I was putting away the dishes from lunch, the ones my late wife Patricia used to call our everyday china even though they were just regular plates from Canadian Tire.

The text was from Rachel. I dried my hands on the towel and picked up the phone.

“Dad, I need to talk to you about Thanksgiving.” I stared at those words for a moment, already feeling something heavy settle in my chest.

It was the second week of September; thanksgiving was still a month away. Why would she need to talk about it now unless something was wrong?

The three dots appeared; she was typing. I waited.

“Greg’s parents are coming to stay with us this year. We’re doing a small gathering, just the nuclear family, you understand?”

“Maybe you can come up to Toronto the weekend after. We’ll do a nice brunch or something.”

Nuclear family. I read those two words three times: nuclear family.

My daughter, her husband, their two kids, and apparently Greg’s parents somehow fit into that definition. But I didn’t.

I’d been driving three hours from Vancouver to Toronto every Thanksgiving for the past 5 years ever since Patricia died. Every single year since my wife passed away I made that drive.

Sometimes in the rain, once in an early snowfall that made the highway treacherous. I never missed it.

And now, nuclear family. I set the phone down without responding.

I went back to the dishes. My hands were shaking slightly as I placed the last plate in the cupboard.

The same cupboard Patricia organized 27 years ago when we first bought this house. She’d put little shelf liners in, the kind with the grip texture so plates wouldn’t slide.

Those liners were still there, worn now, edges curling up, but still there. I thought about last year’s Thanksgiving.

I’d arrived at Rachel’s house around 2:00 in the afternoon. Dinner wasn’t until 6:00.

I’d offered to come earlier to help, but Rachel said 2 was fine. When I got there, Greg’s parents were already there.

They’d been there since the morning apparently. Greg’s mother Donna was in the kitchen with Rachel, laughing about something.

Greg’s father Bill was in the living room with Greg, watching football. The kids were running around the basement.

I stood in the entrance way with my bottle of wine and the pumpkin pie. I’d driven 3 hours with it carefully balanced on the passenger seat.

And Rachel had said, “Oh Dad, you’re here. Just put your stuff anywhere, dinner’s not for a while. Just put your stuff anywhere.”

I’d sat on the couch in the corner of the living room. Bill had nodded at me; we’d never had much to talk about.

He was a retired contractor; I’d been a high school English teacher. We existed in different universes.

Every now and then Greg would try to include me in their football conversation. He asked me something about the Canucks even though we were watching NFL, not hockey.

I’d answer. The conversation would drift back to just the two of them.

At dinner I sat at the end of the table. Donna sat at the other end next to Rachel.

They served the food family style, passing bowls around. By the time everything reached me, Rachel was already suggesting people take seconds.

“Dad, do you want more turkey?” she’d asked. “There’s plenty left.”

Leftovers; I got the leftovers while everyone else was on seconds. After dinner Greg’s parents stayed to help clean up.

I’d offered too but Rachel said, “No, no Dad, you relax, you drove all that way.” So I’d sat in the living room with my grandson who was seven and more interested in his iPad than talking to me.

I left around 9:00. Rachel walked me to the door.

“Thanks for coming Dad, drive safe.” She hugged me quickly, the kind of hug you give someone you’re trying to politely remove from your house.

I’d driven 3 hours home that night thinking, “Next year will be better.” Next year I’ll arrive earlier, next year I’ll insist on helping in the kitchen.

Next year they’ll see me as part of things, not just a guest. And now there wouldn’t be a next year, not like that anyway.

Because this year I wasn’t invited at all. I looked at my phone again.

Rachel hadn’t sent anything else, no explanation, no apology. Just nuclear family and an offer of brunch the weekend after.

Like that somehow made up for excluding me from the actual holiday. I thought about responding.

I typed out a few different messages. “I understand.” Delete. “That’s fine.” Delete.

“Am I not family?” Delete. Finally I just locked my phone and left it on the counter.

That evening I called my son James. He lived in Calgary, worked in oil and gas, and had his own family.

We talked maybe once a month, usually about weather or hockey or how the grandkids were doing. I didn’t call him to complain about Rachel.

I just wanted to hear a voice that wasn’t my own. “Hey Dad,” he answered.

I could hear his kids in the background shouting about something. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much,” I said. “Just wanted to check in, how are things?”

“Busy, you know, work’s crazy right now. Sarah’s got the kids in about 17 different activities. I feel like we live in the van.”

He laughed. “What about you, you good?”

“I’m good,” I said. “Looking forward to the fall, getting cooler.”

“Yeah, we got our first frost last night, can you believe it?” September’s not even over.

There was a crash in the background. “Sorry Dad, I got to go, Ethan just knocked over something. I’ll call you soon, okay?”

“Sure, talk soon.” He hung up.

I sat there in my kitchen in the house I’d lived in for 27 years. The house where I’d raised two kids and buried one wife.

And I felt more alone than I’d felt in a long time. I didn’t sleep well that night; I kept thinking about nuclear family.

I even got up at one point and looked it up on my laptop. Wikipedia said a nuclear family was a family group consisting of two parents and their children.

By that definition I wasn’t nuclear family anymore. My kids were grown, they’d formed their own nuclear families.

I was what? Extended family? Optional family?

The next morning I texted Rachel back just two words. “I understand.”

She responded immediately. “Thanks Dad, I knew you’d get it. Love you.”

Love you. Sure. I spent the next few weeks going through my regular routine.

I’d retired from teaching 3 years ago so my days were mostly my own. I volunteered at the library on Tuesdays, helped shelf books and run the reading group for seniors.

I went to the community center on Thursdays for the walking club. Saturdays I had coffee with Frank, my old colleague from the high school where we’d both taught for nearly 30 years.

It was at one of those Saturday coffees 3 weeks before Thanksgiving that Frank asked me what I was doing for the holiday. “Nothing much,” I said.

“Rachel’s doing a small thing in Toronto, just immediate family.” Frank looked at me over his mug.

Frank was 71, had buried two wives, and had the kind of face that had seen enough nonsense in life that nothing surprised him anymore. “And you’re not immediate family?”

“Apparently not.” “That’s garbage,” Frank said.

“What’s James doing?” “They’re going to Sarah’s parents in Edmonton.”

“So both your kids have plans that don’t include you?” “They have their own families now Frank, that’s how it works.”

“That’s not how it works,” Frank said. “That’s how it works when people forget where they came from.”

He drank his coffee. “You know what you should do? You should go somewhere, do something for yourself. Show them you’ve got a life too.”

“Like what?” “I don’t know, take a trip. Go see something you’ve always wanted to see.”

“When’s the last time you did something just because you wanted to?” I thought about it.

When had I last done something just for me? Patricia and I used to take road trips.

We’d drive down the coast, stop at little towns, eat at local diners. We’d been to Portland five times, San Francisco twice.

She’d wanted to see the Redwoods. We’d been planning a trip when she got sick.

Stage four, 6 months from diagnosis to funeral. We never made it to the redwoods.

“The redwoods,” I said. “What?”

“Patricia always wanted to see the redwood forests in California. We never went.”

Frank nodded. “So go for Thanksgiving. Drive down the coast, see the trees, take some pictures.”

“Post them on Facebook so your kids see you’re not sitting at home feeling sorry for yourself.” I started to say it was a crazy idea.

I started to say I couldn’t just drive to California alone. I started to say a lot of things, but then I stopped.

Why couldn’t I? What was stopping me?

The fact that my daughter didn’t want me at her Thanksgiving dinner? That seemed like more of a reason to go, not less.

“Maybe I will,” I said. Frank grinned.

“Good. About time you did something for yourself.”