Chapter 1

The smell of roasted turkey and sage stuffing usually made Thanksgiving my favorite holiday. Not this year. Not with Uncle Mark holding court. He’d insisted we all come to his rented lake house, a “generous gesture” he wouldn’t let anyone forget. After dinner, when everyone was slumped on the couches, Mark clapped his hands. “Alright folks, how about a little poker to liven things up?” A few uncles and cousins mumbled agreement. We gathered around the big dining table. Then Mark pulled out a thick, worn leather briefcase. He snapped it open. Inside weren’t poker chips. They were stacks of hundred-dollar bills. At least ten of them. He slammed them onto the table. The wood vibrated. “We’re not playing with peanuts tonight,” Mark announced, his voice booming. “A thousand dollars a hand. Minimum buy-in, ten grand. If you can’t swing it, don’t sit down.” A nervous silence fell. My dad, a retired mailman, just stared at the cash. Uncle John, who owned a small hardware store, swallowed hard. “Mark, that’s a bit steep for a family game, isn’t it?” Dad said, his voice quiet. Mark laughed, a harsh, barking sound. “This is how winners play, Bill. You gotta risk big to win big. Something you folks should learn. Work hard, get smart, you too could be playing with real money instead of pinching pennies.” He puffed out his chest, enjoying the awkward, forced smiles and mumbled compliments about his “success” with his used car dealership. I felt a familiar heat rise in my neck. I stood up. Walked to the table. “Uncle Mark,” I said, my voice even. “I’ll play.” Everyone stared. My mom gasped. Mark looked me up and down, a smirk playing on his lips. “You, Mike? Last I heard, you were sorting packages at UPS. What’d you do, hit the lottery?” “Got my holiday bonus,” I said. “A few thousand. Enough to keep you company for a couple of hands.” I could see the disbelief in their eyes. But it wasn’t just about the money. It was about last Christmas, when I’d brought a decent bottle of single malt for Dad. Mark had picked it up, sniffed it, and declared, “Your father wouldn’t know good whiskey if it bathed him. He’s a beer man, Mike. Wasting your money on fancy stuff for a retired mailman.” Dad had just looked down at his shoes. I’d almost decked him then. Tonight, Mark wasn’t just playing poker. He was playing with people’s dignity. My family’s dignity. My father’s. I’d had enough of it.