How Many Days To America?: A Thanksgiving Story

My wife booked plane tickets for the whole family to travel over the Thanksgiving holiday. On the way to the airport, I suddenly noticed that everyone had a number floating above their head. The number above my wife's head was 60 years. Above my parents' heads and mine, it showed only six hours. As I wondered what the numbers meant, I looked through the car window and noticed the driver in the car beside us had only six seconds left. 5... 4... 3... 2... 1... The moment the countdown reached zero, a speeding semi-truck slammed head-on into the car next to us. The car exploded into twisted metal, and debris flew everywhere right in front of my eyes. People around us screamed and cried for help, but I couldn't hear a thing. My whole body was trembling. Because six hours later, our flight was scheduled to take off.

My husband promised we would spend Thanksgiving with my parents this year. Right before we left, he looked down at his phone and frowned. "Damn it. I forgot to change the delivery address again. Your parents' gift basket went to Cassia's place." I stood in the entryway with my fingers frozen around my scarf. For three years of marriage, Roman DeLuca had never removed Cassia Vail's address from his shopping apps. Whenever I asked him why, he always said the same thing: "Cassia and I grew up together. She’s basically family." The Italian espresso machine I wanted went to her apartment. He said her old machine had broken anyway. The sapphire bracelet for our wedding anniversary was signed for by her. He said asking for it back after she opened it would look petty. The sunflowers and baby's breath he promised me on Valentine's Day ended up in her hands. He said she had already put them in a vase, and he couldn't give me secondhand flowers. This time, I had reminded him for two weeks. The Thanksgiving basket had a low-sugar pumpkin pie, nut-free cookies, and a custom low-sodium turkey roll for my father. I had chosen every item myself. It still went to Cassia. I kept my voice steady. "Drive over and get it back." Roman's face darkened. "She already signed for it. What do you want me to do? We'll pick up wine and pastries on the way. Same thing." "It isn't the same. Get it back." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Elena, can you stop turning every little thing into a family trial? No one makes things awkward like you do." Every time something meant for me ended up with his childhood sweetheart, I asked him to get it back. Every time, I got some version of the same answer. I stopped arguing and watched him slam the door behind him. A few minutes later, I wiped my tears and texted my attorney. [Happy Thanksgiving. Please draft a divorce agreement for me. Thank you.]

Because of a last-minute business trip, my husband missed the Thanksgiving family dinner. I spent the entire day helping out at my in-laws' place in the countryside with our five-year-old son, only to receive a complaint from the downstairs neighbor just before dinner. "Ari, could you please close your kitchen window when you're cooking? I can smell the hot sauce from all the way here. My husband has a lung condition—he can't handle it." My neighbor's words shocked me, and I immediately called my husband, who was allergic to chili peppers. "Honey, did someone break into the house? The neighbor said there was smoke coming from the kitchen." His breathing hitched for a second before he let out a casual laugh. "No break-in. My flight got canceled, so I was home alone cooking. When are you two coming back? I really miss you." I smiled and told him we'd stay a couple more days, but in the middle of the night, I packed up our son and drove straight home.

“Ma’am, there’s no marriage record between you and Mr. Mark Henderson in the system.” My fingers tightened around the pregnancy report as my legs nearly gave out beneath me. Five years ago, Mark was recruited by a top law firm abroad with a high-paying offer. Without hesitation, I followed him across the ocean. He had told me, “Once I’m settled, I’ll take care of your status.” However, five years had passed, and my lawful permanent residence was still “in process.” Meanwhile, his assistant, Tonya Irving, who followed him abroad, had secured hers under his sponsorship. Back then, I made a scene, insisting on a divorce so I could return home. For the first time, the ever-composed Mark, an attorney, lost his calm. He grabbed my hand and said, “Tonya’s all alone out here, and it hasn’t been easy for her. Helping her is just the right thing to do. You’re my wife. Your status is only a matter of time. My work is sensitive right now, and I need to avoid any complications. You understand, don’t you?” But I had understood him for five whole years. My phone suddenly rang. Mark’s voice came through, light with laughter. “Tonya’s permanent residence was approved today. We’re celebrating tonight. I need you to get home early and cook up a feast.” I stared at the marriage license in my hand—now nothing more than a worthless piece of paper. A cold chill spread down my spine. As it turned out, I was never his legal wife. I had no legal status and no protection, much less rights secured for the child I was carrying. After hanging up, I scheduled an abortion and booked the earliest flight home. This time, I wouldn’t look back.

Those words defined Claire Reid's entire life—and her death. At twenty-eight, she dies in a hospital bed surrounded by the family she sacrificed everything for: the father who forced her to quit school, the sister who took everything she had, the husband who treated her like an inconvenience, and the mother who demanded endless gratitude for their abuse. As her heart stops, Claire sees their relief and realizes the devastating truth: she wasted her life loving people who never loved her back. Then she wakes up. One year earlier. One month before her family frames her for theft. This time, Claire refuses. Refuses to give money. Refuses to stay silent. Refuses to be grateful for crumbs. Armed with knowledge of their betrayals and a fury born from her wasted first life, she systematically dismantles their manipulations, exposes their schemes, and reclaims her identity. But when she tries to leave her cold, arranged marriage, something unexpected happens.

After deciding to leave Azurea and follow Clara Miller to Northwood City, I was cast out by my parents. "That girl is an orphan–what can she possibly give you? If you choose a life of hardship now, you’ll spend the rest of your life suffering! Once you walk out that door, don’t bother coming back!" I left anyway. For five years, I watched Clara rise step by step, becoming one of Northwood City’s most respected psychologists. Just as she had promised, she gave me a home. As the New Year approached, I planned to take her back to Azurea to reconcile with my parents. However, just before boarding the plane, she abandoned me again–this time for a depressed patient threatening to take his own life. She let go of my hand, her eyes full of pain. "Julian Vance… he’s just like I used to be–alone, with no one to rely on. If I don’t go, he’ll jump. I’m sorry. Just this once. I’ll catch the next flight and meet you there." Then she turned and ran toward the exit without hesitation. I stood there, staring at the two plane tickets in my hand. She had saved everyone who needed redemption. Everyone… except me. Slowly, I tore up her ticket. Then I walked alone toward the security gate and turned off my phone. What Clara did not know was this: Some journeys home, once missed, are gone forever.