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“You didn’t buy me any ingredients to cook with,” she says without heat, gesturing to the bag in her hand. “I brought a bottle of wine and some scratch offs.”

I snort a laugh. “I’d expect nothing less.”

Her eyes linger on me, then she and Ford wave at each other across the yard.

“Don’t let that one go, Scotty Ann.”

I watch him, heart expanding in my chest with every passing second. “Not sure I have a choice.”

June sees Glory next to me and her eyes nearly pop out of her head. I swallow my laugh. “Go eat,” I tell her.

She pulls a framed picture out of the bag. It’s the one of me, her, Zeb, and my dad from the beach that always hung in the hall. “You deserve the good memories.”

In my hands, it feels heavy. My eyes burn with tears I’ve seemingly carried around for twenty years.

“Mama,” I call, the word clunky on my tongue as she starts to walk away. She pauses, surprise filling her features as she looks back at me. “Thanks for coming.”

She half smiles, half shrugs. “Not like I had anything else going on.”

Instead of walking toward the tables, her attention goes over my shoulder, morphing her expression to one of shock. I turn and follow her gaze . . . to Lydia.

The three of us stand staring at each other—three generations of women who’ve known heartache and loss—silent. Taking in the bigness of the moment as our dinged-up histories fill the spaces between us.

It is the heaviest silence of my entire life.

Lydia reaches her arms out with a slight tremble and pulls Glory and me to her chest. “Stubborn women raise stubborn women,” she says, watery laugh in her shaky voice. “But I should have fought harder for both of you girls.” She sniffs. “Should have done better.”

I pull back, wiping my eyes as the sentiment washes over me like a tidal wave. After a lifetime of feeling like nobody in my family could show up for me, could stick around when I neededthem, here they are, just on a different schedule. Their timelines intersecting with mine a little later, albeit annoyingly so, than I hoped.

“Archie would probably tell me the past is a good thing to set on fire,” I say, smiling as a bright-red cardinal lands on a branch of bare shrub near us. “We could always start now.”

She smiles and squeezes my hand. “We could.” Then to Glory, “Will that work for you, Glory?”

My mother’s eyes are wet. She hesitates, smirks, and in a flippant tone: “Guess I have time.”

Lydia shakes her head, but there’s a smile on her lined face as she hands me a frame from her purse. It’s gold and detailed, bordering her and Archie on their wedding day. His smile is wide, her dress is stunning. She looks from the picture to the house. “He would have loved seeing you here, Scotty,” she says. “Having you home.”

I smile, hug her again. Molly runs up to her and she chuckles, petting her on the head gingerly. I have so much to say, so many questions, but not now. Not today. There’s time. I’m not going anywhere.

She and my mom walk toward the tables of food, close but not touching, quiet but not scowling.Home. Lydia’s right. I guess part of me has known it all along. Felt its comforting pull from the second I stepped inside and smelled the mothballs.

June fills the now vacant spot next to me, buzzing with joy.

“I hate you,” I say with a sniff.

“I know you don’t.” She bumps my shoulder with hers. “But you do have enough food to feed an army and enough pictures to fill every wall in your beautiful house.”

Ford’s eyes meet mine across the people filling plates in the middle of my yard.

“He’s the worst,” I tell June.

She chuckles next to me and hooks her arm through mine. “Then you aren’t going to like what’s next.”

In perfect timing, Ford, the only one standing at the end of one table, clinks his glass bottle of Coke from Mexico until everyone falls silent.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he says warmly, everyone responding with a murmuredHappy Thanksgiving. “We celebrate today to give thanks. We gather with gratitude. The Pilgrims, they say, did it to celebrate surviving. I’d venture to say we aren’t so different sitting here. We made it—some of us against all odds.” Ford looks at me and winks. “But what really binds us together today—the silent thread that’s been woven into our lives without even meaning to—is our beautiful host, Scotty Armstrong.”

When he pauses, these idiots clap. Especially June who screamswoo!in my ear. I elbow her and glare at Ford.