At 7:15 the main course was cleared. My phone buzzed in the apron pocket. The locksmith was parked two houses down, on schedule.

Derek stood and tapped a butter knife against his glass. I knew the routine. Humiliating me was always his opening course.

“To family,” he said. “You know, real family is about who shows up. Some people chase a paycheck on the other side of the world and think a Christmas card covers it.”

He paused for the uncomfortable chuckles. “But the people who stay — the ones grinding under this roof — that’s what home actually means.”

Melissa smirked at me and raised her glass. “You can toast too, hun. From the kitchen.”

A woman from the cul-de-sac leaned toward June. “Isn’t that Derek’s sister?”