For Thanksgiving break, I went with Jackson to the Cartwright family estate in Greenwich, Connecticut.

This was my third time visiting. The first was sophomore spring; I was so nervous I didn’t sleep all night. The second was last Thanksgiving when his mother corrected me for using the wrong salad fork.

This time, I followed Mrs. Cartwright’s family recipe, starting the cranberry sauce three days in advance.

Freshly picked cranberries, pure Vermont maple syrup, hand-grated orange zest, a pinch of cinnamon. Every step was followed to the letter, I even used the antique copper pot she specified.

I packed the Mason jar of cranberry sauce into a cooler bag, carrying it carefully to the car.

“You actually made it?” Jackson glanced over. “My mom was probably just being polite, you know.”

“But she gave me the recipe.”

“That’s just what she does, Chloe,” he sighed, starting the car. “Don’t read too much into it.”

The whole drive, I kept wondering what was “reading too much into it” and what was “just right.”

We arrived at the estate in the afternoon. The white colonial mansion looked imposing in the sunset. Jackson’s father stood on the porch, dressed in a cashmere sweater and khakis.

“Jackson!” Mr. Cartwright strode over, giving his son a hug, then looked at me. “Chloe. Welcome.”

Polite. Distant. Just like the last three times.

We had just stepped inside when the doorbell rang.

“It must be Hailey!” Mrs. Cartwright practically ran to the door.

Hailey was dressed in a cream-colored cashmere dress, perfectly matching the house’s aesthetic. She was holding a Whole Foods bag.

“Sorry I’m late!” she said with a laugh. “My Tesla had a little trouble on I-95. But I made it!”

She pulled a beautifully packaged jar from the bag.

“This is the Vanderbilt family cranberry sauce. I know you wanted to try a new flavor this year, so I brought ours.”

Mrs. Cartwright took the jar, her eyes lighting up.

“Darling, how thoughtful! I knew a Vanderbilt girl would understand quality.”

I stood in the corner of the living room, still holding my cooler bag.

Jackson walked over, looked at my bag, then at Hailey, and whispered:

“Maybe save yours for tomorrow?”

At dinner, Mrs. Cartwright placed Hailey’s cranberry sauce right in the center of the table.

“This is what Thanksgiving is supposed to taste like,” Mr. Cartwright nodded after a taste. “An authentic New England tradition.”

Hailey casually remarked, “Actually, the best cranberries this season come from Cape Cod. I drive out to the bogs myself every year.”

She looked at me with a sweet smile.

“Chloe, did you use frozen? I know it’s hard to find fresh ones in Colorado.”

My fingers clenched under my napkin.

“They were fresh,” I said calmly. “I went to the Boston Public Market last week.”

“Oh,” Hailey’s smile widened. “Then it must be a technique issue. These family recipes really need to be learned from a young age.”

That night, my cranberry sauce was never opened.

Back in the guest room, Jackson said nonchalantly:

“My mom really loves Hailey. She grew up in this world, she understands the rules.”

“So I don’t?”

“I didn’t say that,” he rubbed his temples tiredly. “But you need time to adjust. It’s not your fault, it’s just… we come from different worlds.”

I looked out the window at the Greenwich night sky and suddenly realized:

In his eyes, I would always be the outsider who needed to “adjust.”

And Hailey would always be one of “us.”