Thanksgiving rolled around, and as always, my parents and I piled into the car to head back to Grandma's house. When we got there, I spotted her in the kitchen, busy making meat pies with flour that was clearly past its prime—greenish, fuzzy, and far from edible.

I tried to warn her. "Grandma, you really shouldn't use that flour. It's moldy. You could get seriously sick."

The second the words left my mouth, Grandma dropped to the floor, screaming like I'd just slapped her or something.

My dad, the ever-dutiful son, didn't miss a beat. He grabbed the broom and swung it at me, not caring if it hurt.

Mom, losing it completely, grabbed chunks of the meat pie and started shoving them down my throat, forcing me to swallow.

Grandma stood off to the side, clutching my baby brother and glaring at me with cold eyes. "Disrespect your elders, and this is what you get."

I begged them to stop, but the more I pleaded, the harder they hit, and the more forceful they became. I was powerless.

In the end, I choked on that meat pie, the mold, and the sheer bitterness of it all.

Then, suddenly, I was back. Back to Thanksgiving morning, standing in Grandma's kitchen, watching her make those same pies with that same moldy flour. This time, I knew better. I kept my mouth shut.

***

Dad was all about honoring family tradition, so every holiday, without fail, we'd head back to Grandma's, no matter how exhausting the trip was.

Mom held my little brother in her lap in our old, rattling minivan. She looked back at me perched on a tiny fold-out stool, eyes already scanning the horizon like she was bracing for impact. "Angela, when we get there, be helpful. Don't just sit there staring at the food like we never feed you at home."

When we pulled up, Grandma was all smiles, fussing over my parents and my brother, ushering them inside, offering fruit and a place to sit. But when she saw me, trailing behind, the smile faded. "Angela, get in here and help me with the pies."

The second I stepped into the kitchen and saw that familiar gray-green flour and the bowl of old, stale nuts, it hit me. I was back in the nightmare.

I didn't hesitate. I poured the moldy flour into a big bowl, stirring it over and over until it didn't look so bad. The greenish tint was mostly gone, and it almost looked usable. I washed the pie molds, set them to dry, and moved as fast as I could, trying to keep up.

Just when I thought I'd catch a break, Grandma yanked my ear. "You take your eyes off the work for a second, and you're already slacking. No man's ever gonna want you like this. Get chopping!"

I glanced at the two pieces of meat on the cutting board, my stomach turning. One was blackened, ancient, and covered in wriggling maggots; the other, a foul-smelling chunk of pork, was far past its expiration date.

I swallowed hard, trying not to gag. Grandma caught me staring and assumed the worst. "Don't even think about it. This meat's for your dad and brother, not for you."

"Don't worry, Grandma. I'm good," I said, forcing a smile, though inside, I was seething. I couldn't help but think, Go ahead, eat up. Maybe then you'll all be gone sooner.

Grandma's favoritism and stinginess were nothing new. She always kept the good stuff for the men in the family, even if it was long past being good. The flour and nuts Aunt Olivia sent her last year were still being used, no matter how moldy or stale.

Hours passed, and finally, the meat pies were done. They actually smelled decent, but I knew better than to even think about eating one.

At dinner, Grandma made sure to pile them high on Dad's and my brother's plates. "Eat up, Ethan. Have some more, Alexander."

I put on my best hungry face, staring at the pies. "Grandma, can I have some too?"

Grandma pointed to a sad pile of potatoes sitting on the side. "Here's your food. You're a girl, Angela. Meat's not for you. So don't get any ideas."

When my eight-year-old brother waved his meat pie in my face, he smirked. "You're just a worthless girl. You don't get to have any."

I snapped. I slapped the pie right out of his hand.

He stood there stunned for a moment, not expecting me to fight back, especially in front of Mom and Dad. But then he started bawling.

Mom rushed over and scooped him up, rocking him like he was still a baby. "Don't cry, sweetie. If she ever hits you again, we'll just marry her off to that lame guy from the village."

Grandma stormed over, twisting my ear hard. "How dare you hit your brother! Getting real bold, aren't you?"

Mom was still trying to calm my brother down, but Dad had had enough. "Angela, you little brat. It's Thanksgiving, and you just have to ruin it for everyone. Get lost in the kitchen—I can't stand to look at you."

I didn't say a word. I grabbed the potatoes and headed for the kitchen.

The dining table was lively again, full of chatter and laughter.

My brother was wolfing down his pie, pausing just long enough to flatter Grandma. "Grandma, your pies are the best ever!"

Grandma beamed, practically glowing. "Oh, my sweet boy! Eat as much as you want."

After Dad and my brother stuffed themselves, Grandma and Mom dug in, tearing into the pies like they hadn't eaten in days. The whole plate was gone in minutes.

Bellies full, the four of them sprawled out on the couch, groaning and patting their bloated stomachs.

Grandma finally called me out of the kitchen to clean up. I quietly picked up the dirty dishes, doing my "girl's job," as they liked to remind me. To them, I was just free labor, a burden they never wanted.

I'd gone through this once already, and it finally clicked. They didn't see me as family. They never would. I had been stupid enough to think if I worked hard enough if I tried to be good enough, they might actually care about me. But all that got me was a cruel death with no respect.

Last time, when those pies hit the table, I tried to warn them. I told them the moldy nuts and flour could make them sick, maybe even give them cancer.

Grandma lost it, screaming at me for being a curse and ruining Thanksgiving with my "nonsense."

Dad didn't waste a second. He grabbed a broom and started swinging at me. Mom, lost in her twisted sense of loyalty, grabbed the pies and shoved them into my mouth one after another. I choked on them, and they didn't care.

I tried to signal for help, but they just walked away, not even glancing back.

By the time they remembered me, I was already dead, suffocated by their carelessness.

Grandma spat on my body. "This stupid girl—dying right here on Thanksgiving. How unlucky."

My brother clapped his hands, practically dancing. "Finally! No more fighting me for pocket money."

Mom and Dad were just as cold, getting rid of my body like it was nothing. They burned me up and dumped my ashes into the cesspool out back.

My death didn't make a dent in their lives. It was like I never even mattered.

Now that I was back, I was done with them. No more begging for love, no more trying to save them. If they got sick from the moldy flour, if they suffered, if they died—that was their problem, not mine.

This time, I was putting myself first.

My brother had eaten so many meat pies that he started throwing up. Mom, panicked and frantic, carried him on her back, ready to rush out for medicine.

But Grandma blocked the way. "Alexander's just overstuffed himself. No need to waste money on the hospital. Just rub his belly, and I'll fix up some ash water. It'll do the trick."

Mom looked unsure but didn't dare argue with Grandma. So she rubbed my brother's belly as instructed.

Grandma came back with a bowl of ash water and made my brother drink it. He threw up a couple more times, but somehow, he started feeling better.

Grandma was all smug about it. "See? Nothing a bit of ash water can't handle."

Mom nodded enthusiastically. "Mom, you're incredible."

I quietly said, "Mom, maybe you should still take him to the hospital. He doesn't look right."

Grandma heard me and kicked my shin. "Angela, you troublemaker! Your brother's fine now, and you're still making trouble."

She gave me another swift kick. "Go make dinner. Cook something your brother likes. He needs to eat more."

So, I used the leftover flour from the meat pies to bake a huge pizza, steamed the leftover pies from yesterday, and reheated last night's ribs before calling everyone to the table.

My brother looked pale as he sat down.

Seeing him like that nearly broke Grandma's heart. "Alexander, you poor thing. Eat some of your favorite pizza, sweetie."

She kept urging Mom and Dad to eat more, while I silently picked at my potatoes, keeping my head down.

In the middle of the night, I was jolted awake by the sound of footsteps pounding up and down the stairs.

I went downstairs to find Mom and Dad both dashing to the bathroom, clearly suffering the same fate as my brother.

I'd seen this coming.

Grandma never used the fridge, preferring to hang meat in the well, salted thickly. Those pork slabs? Who knew how long they'd been hanging—they were definitely spoiled.

Diarrhea was just the beginning. The real trouble was still to come.

Seeing them fighting over the bathroom, I tried to help. "Mom, you can't keep running to the bathroom like this. You should really go to the hospital."

Dad, seeing the logic in my words, went to change into clean clothes, preparing to head out.

Just then, Grandma came in from outside. "Why go to the hospital? Just drink some ash water, and you'll be fine. It worked for Alexander this afternoon."

"Angela, go get four bowls of water. I'll mix up the ashes."

I got the bowls of water, and Grandma mixed the ashes into them, then handed them out to Mom, Dad, and herself.

Half an hour later, they seemed to feel a bit better.

But it wasn't long before Mom's frantic scream came from the bedroom.

"Ethan! Ethan, come quick! Look at Alexander!"

We all rushed in to find my brother violently vomiting, blood mixed in with the mess. He was convulsing uncontrollably, his symptoms escalating quickly.

Fearful of how fast things had gotten worse, the entire family scrambled to get him to the hospital.

When we got to the county hospital, my brother was rushed straight into the emergency room.

Doctors were coming in and out, and during that time, they issued two death notices.

Dad, in disbelief, refused to sign any documents.

Grandma, enraged, confronted the doctors. "How much do you want to save my grandson? You heartless crooks! May you never find peace."

Mom, sitting dazed outside the emergency room, kept wiping away tears. I felt a pang of sympathy but was powerless to help.

When the operating room lights finally went out, the doctor came out, and everyone rushed to him. He removed his mask and shook his head.

"We couldn't save him. Please accept our condolences."

Mom crumpled to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.

Grandma, furious, grabbed the doctor's leg, shouting, "You miserable, heartless people! I knew I shouldn't have brought Alexander here. My poor Alexander, why did you have to suffer so much?"

Dad, in a rage, grabbed the doctor by his collar. "My son was fine when we brought him in. Now you're telling me he's dead? Your skills must be terrible. You owe me for my son's life."

Eventually, someone called the police, who arrived and managed to calm down the chaotic scene caused by Grandma and Dad at the hospital.

By the time we got home, it was already morning. I reheated yesterday's pizza, steamed a fresh batch of meat pies, and set everything on the table, calling everyone to eat.

At the table, everyone sat in silence as I quietly ate my potatoes.

Then Mom suddenly erupted. "Eat, eat, eat! All you do is eat. You've already killed my Alexander, and you're still eating?"

Mom continued to cry, lamenting, "My Alexander, my poor Alexander."

Dad, inflamed by Mom's words, grabbed a broom and started hitting me on the head with it.

Dad, used to heavy labor, was much stronger than average. Swinging the broom and cursing, he yelled, "I'll beat the life out of you, you jinx!" I couldn't bear the pain any longer and curled up, begging him.

"Dad, I didn't kill my brother. Please, spare me!"

Meanwhile, Mom came towards me with a meat pie, muttering, "I'm going to make you eat. You're going to eat this." She shoved the pie into my mouth.

Grandma stood by, watching coldly. "Beat her good. She's the one who brought this misfortune and caused my grandson's death. She deserves it."

With my mouth stuffed full of meat pie, Mom kept shoving more in while Dad continued to hit me with the broom.

The fear of my past death came rushing back. Was I doomed to repeat this nightmare all over again?