“Sam dear,” my mom says, “how about you give thanks this year?” I glance across the table to my sister Samantha. From beneath her brown curls she catches my eye and gives me a knowing look.

I mouth the words, “Go ahead.” What else can I say? It’s not like we can tell our parents what we know. It’s not like we can tell them the truth.

Samantha clears her throat and, in her stalled and stuttering voice, thanks God for the normal things — food, health and family. Hearing her struggle to speak used to make my heart ache, but now I feel relieved. Now, I love each and every mangled word. I love the way she talks because it’s how she is. It’s who she is.

“That was lovely dear,” my mom says after Samantha finishes. Sam looks at me again, and I nod. She smiles proudly.

“And I’d like to add,” my mom continues, clasping her hands together and closing her eyes. “God, thank you for bringing our Samantha back to us and please… please be with Shawn’s parents, Clyde and Harriet Diggins, who…” She pauses for a moment as she tries to find the right words. “aren’t as fortunate. Amen.”

My mom’s addendum brings a dark and somber cloud over us — over me and Sam especially. In the ensuing silence I picture Mr. and Mrs. Diggins at their own dinner table, Shawn’s empty chair between them. Guilt radiates from the pit of my stomach. It’s hard to imagine them thanking God tonight. It’s far easier imagining them blaming Sam and me instead.

Mom helps my sister cut her turkey into small pieces. Dad has already started eating his over-sized helping of corn casserole. Me, I just sit there and think how great it would be to push this burden off my chest. How would I start? How could I possibly bring up such an unbelievable prospect? Probably the easiest way would be to pick up where my mom left off — with thanking God.

“You know,” I’d say, “there’s really no one up there to thank.”

My mom and dad would no doubt give me a confused look, or maybe even a scowl. But I’d keep right on going.

“Just like there’s no heaven and no hell… there’s something else entirely.”

They might start yelling. Sam might start crying. Or maybe, just maybe, my parents would ask me how I know. I hope that’s what they’d do because I have an answer. I have the truth. I’d tell them that I know because Sam told me… right after she died.