I cooked Christmas dinner for seventeen people, and not one of my children came.
Three months later, I disappeared with every dollar they thought was waiting for them.
On Christmas Eve, my kitchen smelled of roasted turkey, honey-glazed ham, cinnamon cider, buttery potatoes, and the pecan bread Richard used to bake every December before his heart gave out.
The candles cast a soft golden glow across the dining room walls.
Outside, the windows had turned black with winter.
And the clock above the stove ticked so loudly that it felt
