I woke before sunrise on Thanksgiving. Daniel slept until eight-thirty. When he finally came downstairs, I was chopping celery.

“Smells good,” he said, leaning in to kiss my cheek. I turned my head just enough that his lips brushed my hair instead. He never noticed.

By ten, Eleanor arrived carrying nothing but a handbag and criticism. “The flowers are lovely,” she said. “A little low for the table, but lovely.” Without asking, she opened the refrigerator.

“Did you make the cranberry sauce from scratch?”

“Yes.”

“Daniel always liked the canned kind when he was little.”