At 3:45 on Christmas afternoon, after I had spent two days cooking dinner for my son and daughter-in-law, my doorbell finally rang. It wasn’t them. A courier handed me a manila envelope in Lauren’s handwriting: “We decided to spend Christmas at my mom’s house this year. Last minute change. Hope you understand.” My husband had been gone only nine months. By sunrise the next morning, I found another envelope hidden outside in Richard’s handwriting, and the message inside sent me straight to the desk he had told me not to touch.

“Tradition is just repetition people are happy about,” he once told me.

For forty-eight years, we had repeated ours.

So when our son David and his wife Lauren agreed to come for Christmas dinner, I let myself believe the day might hurt a little less.

I should have known better than to build so much hope around a single meal.

But grief does strange things to your judgment.

You bargain with ordinary things.

If the tree looks right, maybe the house will feel right.

If the ham tastes the way it always did, maybe dinner will still feel like Christmas.

If your child walks through the front door at three o’clock, maybe the empty chair at the end of the table will not seem quite so large.

I spent two days preparing.

I bought a honey-glazed ham and fixed it the way Richard loved, with pineapple rings pinned across the top and brown sugar pressed into the edges. I made mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, sweet potatoes with pecans, buttered rolls, and a pecan pie David had loved since he was a boy.