I got a text on Thanksgiving morning: ‘Dinner is at 2. Don’t be late, David!’ My name isn’t David. I texted back: ‘You have the wrong number. But can I still get a plate?’ I was joking. I was spending Thanksgiving alone with a microwave meal. The reply came: ‘Of course you can. That’s what grandmas do. We feed everyone. Here’s the address.’ I thought it was a prank. But I was lonely enough to risk it. I drove over. It was a house full of people I didn’t know. The grandma, a tiny woman named Wanda, opened the door. She didn’t ask who I was. She just hugged me. ‘Come in, baby. Put a coat on that rack.’ I ate turkey. I laughed with strangers. I felt like family. That was six years ago. David (the real grandson) and I are now best friends. And I haven’t missed a Thanksgiving at Wanda’s since. Last year, Wanda passed away. We all sat at the table, crying. But we set a plate for her. And we set an extra empty plate, just in case someone sends a wrong text. Family isn’t always blood. Sometimes, it’s just an open door.