The dryer turning upstairs.

It was Thanksgiving.

I had been awake since five.

There was a turkey in the refrigerator, thawed and ready.

I’d bought vegetables for the stuffing, cream for the potatoes, and everything Rebecca had requested for the children’s favorite dessert.

Two days earlier, I’d asked Daniel whether he preferred dinner at three or five.

He told me:

“Don’t worry about it, Mom.