You’re forty-three years old and still answering phones like a teenage girl. Honestly, Claire

Vanessa rolled her eyes. “Oh God, here we go. Did you finally get promoted to answering TWO phones?” Her husband snorted. Daniel opened his mouth to defend me, but I touched his hand under the table. I had this. “I haven’t been a receptionist for six years,” I said. “I passed the bar in 2019. I’m a partner at Hartwell & Stone. The ‘Stone’ on the door — that’s been me since March.” The fork slipped out of Vanessa’s hand and clattered onto the china. “That’s… that’s not funny,” she stammered. “It isn’t,” I agreed. “Daniel asked me to keep it quiet around the family. He said you’d treat me differently, and he wanted to see who actually liked me first.” I turned to my mother-in-law, whose face had gone the color of the tablecloth. “You all failed, by the way.” Then I looked back at Vanessa. “Here’s the part that might interest you. Three weeks ago, a woman walked into my office wanting to file for divorce. Wanted full custody, the brownstone, and proof of her husband’s offshore accounts in the Caymans. Her husband works in hedge funds.” Across the table, Vanessa’s husband went very, very still. “I declined the case,” I said sweetly, “because of the obvious conflict of interest. But I did refer her to Margaret Chen — the most ruthless divorce attorney in the state. She starts Monday.” Vanessa’s head whipped toward her husband. “Eric? Eric, what is she talking about?” Eric was already standing, already reaching for his coat. My mother-in-law whispered, “Oh dear God.” I picked up my fork and cut another bite of turkey. “More wine, Vanessa? You look like you could use it.” Daniel squeezed my hand under the table, and for the first time in eleven Thanksgivings, the ‘simple one’ had the last word. The pumpkin pie, by the way, was delicious. Vanessa didn’t get a slice.