Originally Posted on August 29, 2021

A vine covered in pink blossoms climbed a concrete fence outside the kitchen window of the villa—tucked away in its own quiet place from the surrounding city.

Sitting on a stool at the kitchen table, I watched the sun set as my friend, Annie, hustled around the kitchen, from the sink to the stove and around to the fridge, with a pot holder in one hand and a spatula in the other.

Her husband, Sean, popped in and out of the kitchen as he scooped up plates of raw meat—chicken, brisket, and turkey sausage—to grill in the backyard.

On the wall hung butterfly stickers, alongside a calendar with handwritten birthdays. A portable CD boom box sat on the counter behind me. A tea set painted with snow-topped trees adorned the shelves to my right.

One month ago, I was sitting in my mama’s kitchen, where we sipped on coffee every morning, fried Oreo’s, and ate homemade pumpkin pie on behalf of Thanksgiving 2021. Outside, we all popped firecrackers, drove the ATV down the bumpy trails, and watched my little nephew cover himself in mud.

Back in Annie’s kitchen, I glanced up at the clock—seven o’clock. Someone knocked on the door.

They’re here, Sean said.

After hopping up and heading to the door, I met Marium, along with her husband and three girls. They traveled from Pakistan to Doha to see family.

I leaned in as Marium hugged me, and I waited for Sean and Annie to lead us all into the dining room.

The dinner conversations followed a familiar pacing. Between bites of food, everyone exchanged eye contact, took turns sharing stories, and laughed in the same moments.

The topics ranged from international schooling benefits and the best cities worldwide to the weather and pets.

“See, here’s my cat, Misty,” Marium said, showing me a photo of her gray cat on her phone.

A few minutes later, everyone watched one of the girls put both her legs up in the chair and wrap both arms around them.

Her father smiled and told her that the dog wouldn’t bite.

Milo, the jumbo Chihuahua, was making his rounds around the table to lick everyone’s feet.

“What do you want to be someday?” Annie asked the girl.

“A fighter jet pilot,” she said.

“But they’re all still sleeping in the same bed with their mother—all of them,” the father said, laughing.

The girls, two of whom wore matching pigtails, giggled.

“Do you girls like ice cream?” Annie asked.

As seven o’clock turned to nine, we sat in the chairs surrounding the coffee table. The girls roamed from the living room back to the dining room as they played what appeared to be their own game.

I looked at the faces at everyone around me.

“Annie turns 70 next month. She’s from the UK,” I thought. “All of the girls are no older than 14. They’re from Pakistan. I’m 26. I’m from America.”

But tonight, we are all here together.

“How did I get here?” I thought.

I felt detached and at home simultaneously—like I was a stranger at another family’s Thanksgiving.

“But this is your life,” I thought. “Tonight is your memory to keep.”

On our way out the door, Annie gave us hugs and colorful crocheted scarves.

As I drove home, I yawned, then smiled. I won’t be spending Thanksgiving alone.