Storytelling Saturday: Friendsgiving

The smell of roasted sweet potatoes and sage butter filled the tiny apartment long before the first guest was supposed to arrive. Kiana stood in the middle of her kitchen, flour on her cheek and anxiety in her chest. The turkey was golden and perfect, collard greens simmered low on the stove, and a sweet potato pie cooled on the counter like a promise she wasn’t sure would be kept.

This was her first Thanksgiving away from Georgia. Her family back home was large, loud, and full of love. They are kind of people who talked over each other, argued about who made the best potato salad, and prayed long enough for the food to go cold. Here in Baltimore, it was just her, her job at the marketing firm, and a handful of coworkers who smiled politely but never seemed to linger past lunch breaks.

Still, Kiana had tried. She had built a small website called “Kiana’s Friendsgiving Feast,” complete with RSVP buttons, a photo of her menu, and a welcome note that said, come hungry, come happy, come as you are. Then, to make it personal, she printed handmade invitations with gold leaf edges and passed them around the office. Everybody got one, from the CEO to the janitorial staff.

That had been two weeks ago.
Not a single RSVP came through.

Her older sister, Monique, had laughed when she told her over FaceTime.
“You really made a whole website, Kiki?” Monique said, shaking her head. “Girl, people don’t click links like that. You know folks just wanna show up and eat.”

“Well, they could’ve at least said no,” Kiana muttered.

Monique snorted. “You can’t take it personal. Not everybody got your heart, sis. Just make yourself a plate, FaceTime us, and pretend we’re there.”

Now it was almost six o’clock. The long dining table Kiana had borrowed from her neighbor was covered in her grandmother’s linen tablecloth. Candles flickered. There were plates stacked neatly beside folded napkins, each one held together by a tiny ribbon. She’d made name tags, too, hopeful and naive little cards with looping cursive.

She took a deep breath, opened her laptop, and connected her family call. Her sister’s face appeared first, followed by her mom, dad, and a half dozen cousins squeezed into the frame. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses hit her all at once.

“Hey, baby!” her mother said. “You look so beautiful. Show us the spread!”

Kiana turned her camera toward the table. Her family ooh’d and aah’d like she’d won an award.

“Girl, you did all that for just you?” her cousin Jasmine teased. “You better freeze some of that for next month.”

Kiana laughed, but it came out thin. “It’s fine. I just wanted to feel festive.”

Her sister tilted her head. “You sure you’re okay, Kiki?”

“I’m fine.” She wasn’t.

The clock ticked closer to 6:30. No doorbell. No texts. Just the flicker of candles and the hum of her refrigerator. Her chest felt tight, her throat thick. She sat down at the table, staring at the food she’d spent all day making. Her eyes skimmed over the mashed potatoes she’d whipped by hand, the dressing she’d baked twice for that perfect crisp edge, the gravy that was somehow both rich and silky.

“Maybe I’ll just pack it up for the week,” she said softly.

Then came the knock.

It was hesitant, like someone testing the door. Kiana froze, glanced at her laptop where her family was watching, and whispered, “Hold on, y’all.”

When she opened the door, she saw Mr. Grant from accounting, standing there with a bottle of wine and an awkward smile.

“Hey, Kiana. Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Couldn’t find your apartment number for a minute.”

Behind him came two more coworkers; Tamika from HR holding a foil-covered pan and Curtis, one of the custodians, carrying a six-pack of ginger ale. Then more faces appeared. The receptionist. The IT guy. Even Mrs. Brooks, the sixty-year-old woman who cleaned the offices in the evenings, holding a plate of deviled eggs.

Kiana blinked. “I thought nobody RSVP’d.”

Mr. Grant laughed. “Oh, that link you sent didn’t work. Kept saying ‘page not found.’ But Tamika told everybody the time, so we figured we’d just show up.”

She stepped aside, her mouth open in disbelief as people filed in one by one, filling her apartment with chatter and warmth. Within minutes, the once-quiet space buzzed with energy. Someone connected a Bluetooth speaker, another uncorked the wine, and before long, the place smelled not just of good food and spices, but of life.

Her laptop was still open on the table. Her sister’s voice called out, “Kiki, who’s at the door?”

Kiana grinned and turned the screen. “You seeing this?”

Her family erupted in cheers as they watched her new friends pull up chairs and make plates. Monique wiped a tear from her eye. “I told you people just wanna show up and eat.”

Tamika came over with a plate of turkey and greens. “Your food is amazing, girl. You gotta give me that mac and cheese recipe.”

“Only if you tell me what’s in those yams,” Kiana said, smiling for real now.

They sat, they laughed, they talked about everything from bad office coffee to holiday traditions. Curtis told a story about how his grandmother used to make sweet tea so strong it could “put hair on your soul.” Mrs. Brooks offered a prayer that made everyone pause in gratitude.

As the night went on, Kiana realized something unexpected, she wasn’t just hosting dinner. She was building community. These weren’t her family by blood, but they were here, breaking bread, sharing stories, being human together.

Later, after the last guest left and the apartment settled into a gentle silence, Kiana sat on the couch, still smiling. Her laptop chimed, her sister again.

“You see, Kiki?” Monique said, voice soft now. “You didn’t need that website. You just needed faith.”

Kiana looked around at the empty plates, the faint scent of food still in the air, and nodded. “Yeah. I guess Friendsgiving found me after all.”

She leaned back, heart full, the city outside no longer feeling so strange or lonely. Baltimore had opened its arms, and she had opened her door.

For the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel far from home at all.

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