Four hours you kept the jaw locked, and I want you to know I noticed. Someone at the far end of the table said the thing they say every year, and you did the thing you do every year: you swallowed it. I felt it go down. That warm flood behind the sternum, that little fist the stomach makes, all of it stored just under the ribs where I keep the things you can't say out loud.
Meanwhile I was busy. Two helpings of the roast, a third of the potatoes, a slab of pudding you did not taste because you were too far away, up in your own head, defending something. I did the work regardless. Broke it all down in the dark, sorted the sugar, sent the heat out to your hands so you could keep passing plates and smiling.
The heart never once asked for a break. Beat straight through the toast, the awkward pause, the second bottle.
Your feet swelled a little in the good shoes. Your throat went dry from talking over everyone at once. You forgot me almost entirely, which is how I know it was a real holiday: you only remember I'm here when I complain.
I'm not complaining.
But the table is quiet now and the plates are stacked and you're sitting in the low light letting it all settle. So while you're still. A glass of water, if you can manage it. Not for any reason. Just that I carried a lot today, and a little water is how you say thank you to an old animal who never once considered putting you down.