Page 61 of Under the Mistletoe
“She has completely turned our business around. Without Jay Jay, I’m not sure where we would be. Her know-how, strategy, and insights are amazing,” Aunt Vivian gushes, and my cheeks warm.
“It isn’t just me. You guys are the ones who know all about the stocks, suppliers, and logistics,” I tell the group, and I feel Donovan’s hand rest on my thigh in support.
My mother piles her plate with food like she’s entitled to the world, and I notice my father doing the same.
“I have to say, Jessica has made a world of difference to my organization as well. She’s my best employee.” Donovan gives me a wink.
“What exactly is your business?” my father asks, frowning.
“I own York Enterprises. It’s a multinational corporation in the textiles industry. We focus on fabrics and materials for high-end apparel, predominately,” Donovan tells them, and my parents' faces sour.
“Well, the cotton industry has a lot to answer for. They have a history of child labor, poor working conditions, and colonial exploitation…” My dad starts ranting, making me feel sick.
“Do you like the turkey, honey?” Aunt Vivian interrupts, trying to change the conversation, and I appreciate it.
“It’s delicious. You know I love your stuffing…” I grin at her.
“It’s amazing,” Donovan adds.
“The best stuffing I’ve ever eaten,” Uncle Bob tells her, looking at her with deep love, and the coolness I started to feel around the table dissipates a bit.
“Cotton’s not as soft as people think.” My mom isn’t picking up on the social cues to drop the conversation and instead pushes for righteousness. “It’s soaked in stolen water. Every shirt is stitched with pesticide. I wear hemp because it respects the Earth. Cotton? That’s just fast fashion’s lie wrapped in a pretty label.”
“The cotton industry supports the livelihoods of over one hundred fifty million people across seventy-five countries, including thirty-two million farmers, nearly half of whom are women. So it isn’t all bad,” I tell her, stabbing my turkey.
They don’t love me. Probably never did. If they did, they wouldn’t have left me to someone else to raise. If they did, they would be polite, friendly, keep their opinions to themselves, and just enjoy lunch with family. Be grateful that we’re all together. Isn't that what Thanksgiving is all about?
“Oh, Jay Jay, don’t believe all that rubbish. The government tells you only what they want you to know,” my mother dismisses me almost instantly.
“Your mother is right. Commercialism is just legalized greed. The government is all bought by the wealthy in this country.” My dad backs her up, and I swallow.
I don’t remember my parents' previous visits much. They usually float in, stay for lunch, maybe dinner, and then plan to meet me for breakfast the next day but never show up. As a kid, I remember crying, failing to understand why they would just leave me again and again without a simple goodbye. Them usually rushing out of the city during the night, telling me in a call months later that they had to get out of the city, the pollution killing their nervous systems. Not once thinking that their visits were killing me.
But now that they put their very divisive opinions out on the table, during what should be a warm family moment, one where we need to be grateful and thankful for what we have, I find it more frustrating than ever.
“Commercialism isn’t perfect, but it’s also what built the hospitals, the roads, and the tech you use to tweet about how evil capitalism is. You want change? Fine. But don’t pretend the entire system is rotten when it’s also the reason billions of people aren’t starving.” My voice comes out harsher than I meant it to.
“Jay Jay, you can’t possibly believe that.” My mother looks at me like I’m a stupid little girl, and my father shakes his head in disappointment. “We didn’t have you for you to contribute to the problem, Jay Jay.”
“Well, then why did you have me?” My voice rises, and I drop my cutlery, the sounds clattering around the table making everyone stop. I feel Donovan’s hand on my thigh gently caress, soft and steady, offering me his silent support.
“The condom broke,” Dad says matter-of-factly.
“Jesus,” Uncle Bob groans, rubbing his head, and I stare at my parents, neither of them looking at all ashamed, concerned, or remorseful.
“What?” I sit back in my chair, in a state of shock.
“We were young, about to join the protest circuit, had a fantastic night on mushrooms…” My mom looks almost whimsical like she's reminiscing and not tearing my heart in two.
“Hmmm… that was a good night,” my father agrees, and I frown.
“We couldn’t really take a kid around the country. I mean, we tried, but babies aren’t conducive to being tied to forest machinery to prevent old growth trees being cut down,” my mom adds flippantly.
From the corner of my eye, I see my aunt’s stricken face, and my throat and mouth feel dry.
“Excuse me.” I throw my napkin on the table, my chair screeching on the floor as I bolt for the kitchen.
Head hanging low, I lean against the counter. My breath is labored, and I can’t get enough oxygen. My own parents treat me like I’m nothing, a disappointment, like I’m so easy to just let go of.
