Marcus's parents arrived on Thanksgiving morning carrying tupperware containers of prepared food and expressions of carefully controlled worry. His mother, Amy Chen, was smaller than Marcus remembered, as if anxiety had compressed her into a more compact version of herself. His father, Richard, carried the food with the same methodical efficiency he brought to everything, his engineer's mind already calculating the logistics of reheating and serving.
"Marcus," his mother said, and then she was hugging him with an intensity that suggested she'd feared she might never get the chance again. "Let me look at you."



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