Dad sat at one end of the long oak dining table, older now, his hair completely white, helping Lily mash her sweet potatoes with a plastic spoon while she giggled uncontrollably. Mom was bustling around the kitchen, though I gently intercepted her before she could stress herself into a panic over the gravy. Claire was there too, sitting next to Ben, looking calmer than I had ever seen her, deep in a conversation about landscaping.
Owen and Miles, now teenagers with deep voices and endless appetites, were raiding the kitchen counter for rolls just like they used to do at Grandma’s.
Maya walked up behind me, resting her hands on my shoulders as I carved the turkey at the counter.
“Everything okay?” she asked, kissing the back of my neck.
“Everything is perfect,” I said.
