The gift was that Holly got to be the one who opened it, or didn’t.

After three years of being handed cheap candles and printed place cards that told her where she stood, my daughter finally held something that let her stand somewhere of her own choosing.

Chapter 11 — GUEST

The next morning was Gene’s annual Boxing Day brunch, and she had reset the long table with the same meticulous care she brought to everything — white porcelain squared to the table edge, silver napkin rings, and at every place a handwritten card telling each of us exactly where Gene had decided we belonged.

Place cards are a hospitable-looking thing.