We have 40 people over for Thanksgiving, 30 people for Easter

Host: The evening air was thick with the scent of roasted turkey and cinnamon candles. Through the wide windows of the suburban house, a golden light spilled out onto the snow-covered lawn. Inside, the living room hummed with laughter and the soft clinking of glasses. It was Thanksgiving night — the kind that carries a strange weight of both joy and fatigue.
Jack stood by the fireplace, his grey eyes following the flicker of the flames. Jeeny sat on the couch beside a half-empty cup of mulled wine, her long hair catching the firelight like a veil of smoke.

Jack: “Forty people for Thanksgiving, thirty for Easter, thirty-five for Christmas… it sounds less like a home and more like an annual circus.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Some people spend their holidays alone, Jack. Isn’t it beautiful that people want to gather, to share time, food, laughter?”

Host: Jack’s lips curved into a thin, cynical smile. The crackling of the fire filled the space between them like restrained thunder.

Jack: “Beautiful? Maybe. But it’s also exhausting. I see it all the time — families breaking their backs to meet expectations. To perform this perfect version of belonging. Sonya Walger says she carries it with pride, but that pride can be a trap. People start to expect you to hold their happiness together.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe that expectation means something. It means you’ve built a home big enough, warm enough, that people want to return. You can’t call that a burden, Jack — it’s a kind of grace.”

Host: The wind outside brushed against the windows like a whisper. The sound of children laughing in the kitchen faded into the distance.

Jack: “Grace? Or guilt dressed up as grace? Think about it — the world is full of people breaking under the pressure of hospitality. Look at mothers who cook for twenty people and smile through the pain, fathers who take extra shifts just to afford one more ham. They call it tradition, but it’s a ritual of exhaustion. Who are they really doing it for?”

Jeeny: “For love. For memory. For continuity. You can’t measure love in effort and calories. My grandmother used to cook for the whole village every Christmas. She’d say, ‘The table isn’t heavy when hearts are full.’”

Host: Jack turned from the fire, his shadow stretching across the floor. His voice grew softer, edged with something vulnerable.

Jack: “And when she couldn’t anymore? When she got old? Did they still come? Or did they forget?”

Jeeny: pauses, her voice quieter “They came. They came and cooked for her. That’s the thing about giving, Jack. It plants a seed that blooms in others.”

Host: Silence hung heavy for a moment — the kind of silence that glows, not fades.

Jack: “You make it sound noble, Jeeny. But what about the people who feel trapped by it? I once knew a woman — a single mother — who hosted every holiday for her siblings. One year she said she couldn’t do it. They didn’t call her again. Not once. That’s what happens when generosity becomes obligation.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the problem isn’t generosity, but how others receive it. That’s not a fault of kindness — it’s a fault of expectation.”

Host: The clock on the mantel ticked like a heartbeat. The night deepened; snow pressed against the windowpanes.

Jack: “Still, isn’t there something artificial about the way people cling to holidays? Once a year, everyone pretends they’re close. They toast to togetherness, then disappear back into their screens and schedules.”

Jeeny: “Pretending can be a start, Jack. Sometimes we act the love we hope to feel until it becomes real. You think people are hypocrites; I think they’re trying.”

Host: Jack’s brow furrowed, his voice low and sharp.

Jack: “Trying doesn’t always make it true. If the warmth only lasts until the dishes are washed, what’s the point?”

Jeeny: leans forward, eyes bright “The point is that, even for one night, someone feels seen. Someone feels part of something bigger. Do you know how many people would give anything for that illusion?”

Host: The argument’s rhythm quickened — like the flicker of fire when new wood is thrown in.

Jack: “You’re talking like hope is a meal that can feed the hungry.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it is. During World War II, families in bombed cities still gathered to share scraps of bread on Christmas Eve. They didn’t do it for food — they did it to remember they were still human. That’s the power of gathering. It’s defiance against despair.”

Host: The fire popped, sparks leaping like tiny embers of truth. Jack looked at her, speechless for a moment, then exhaled — long and heavy.

Jack: “Defiance… maybe. But I’ve seen the opposite too. People who throw parties just to prove they’re not lonely. To show the world they’re loved. It’s performance, not connection.”

Jeeny: “So what if it starts as performance? Maybe that’s all human life is — a performance we hope turns into reality. Isn’t every faith, every celebration, a way of acting out the life we wish we lived?”

Host: The firelight flickered over their faces — Jack’s pale, Jeeny’s warm. The snow outside had stopped, but the world felt suspended in stillness.

Jack: “You always turn weakness into poetry, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “And you always turn beauty into weakness.”

Host: Her voice trembled — not with anger, but with aching sincerity.

Jeeny: “You think pride in giving is a burden. I think it’s the last thread of community left in this fractured world. When Sonya Walger says she carries it with pride, I understand her. She’s saying: I’m the keeper of the hearth. I hold space for others. That’s sacred.”

Jack: “Sacred, sure. Until it burns you out.”

Jeeny: “Then others must learn to tend the fire. That’s what family means. Not obligation — inheritance of care.”

Host: Jack’s gaze softened. He rubbed his temple, his tone dropping into quiet reflection.

Jack: “I envy that… the belief that people will show up when it’s your turn to rest. I’ve seen too many empty tables.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the answer isn’t to stop hosting, but to invite the right people. Not out of duty, but love.”

Host: For a long while, they said nothing. The fire dimmed, the room bathed in amber shadow.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe there’s a difference between carrying expectation and carrying meaning. One breaks you; the other sustains you.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Pride isn’t the enemy, Jack. Pride can be love wearing its strongest face.”

Host: Jack gave a small smile, almost invisible, but it changed the room.

Jack: “Then perhaps all those tables — forty for Thanksgiving, thirty for Easter — they aren’t signs of pressure. They’re proof that someone’s heart became a home.”

Jeeny: softly “And isn’t that the real miracle of any holiday?”

Host: The fire dwindled to embers. Outside, the sky began to pale — the first hint of dawn brushing against the horizon. Jack stood and poured the last of the wine into two cups, handing one to Jeeny.

Jack: “To carrying it with pride.”

Jeeny: “To carrying it together.”

Host: They drank in silence as the light crept across the floor, gilding the scattered plates and crumpled napkins — the evidence of shared humanity. And for a moment, amid the quiet aftermath of festivity, the house didn’t feel like a burden. It felt like a heart, still beating, still warm, waiting for the next gathering of souls.