For nobody to ever leave. Seven years old, and her daughter’s deepest New Year’s wish was for the people at the table to simply stay.

That was the wound Jason had put in her, and no deed or court order would ever fully close it; Zoe was going to carry some version of that watchfulness for a long time, maybe always.

Claire didn’t pretend otherwise, even to herself, even on a night with a lit tree and everyone laughing.

What she could do — what she was doing — was make sure that from here on, the people at this table were people who stayed.

George and Ruth, who had driven through the night and never once wavered. Judith on the phone every Wednesday.

And Jason, provisionally, on probation that would last as long as her children needed it to, kept honest by a court order and by a thirteen-year-old who confirmed appointments out loud and a seven-year-old who did not hand out her drawings for free.