For four years my husband's family called me the walking credit card and ordered lobster every time I was at the table. At my father-in-law's birthday dinner I smiled, let all nineteen of them order, and then a waiter came out carrying a tray of nineteen separate checks.

I was reading the menu properly. I do that. I had the wine list open beside it because I was going to suggest something in the middle of the range for the table.

And Briar reached across and took the menu out of my hands.

She did not snatch it. She took it, folded it, and passed it down the table to a nephew who did not have one.

And she said, to nineteen people, entirely cheerfully:

"Give me that. You don't need to look at the prices, do you? Family's got a walking credit card. Order something nice, everybody."

The table laughed. Most of them. Genuinely, warmly, the way a family laughs at its own running joke.

Orrin, whose birthday it was, said "Briar," in a mild voice and then went back to his conversation.

Torren, sitting next to me, laughed as well.

Nobody said anything else.

And I said, "I'll share with you then," to my husband, and he pushed his menu over about four inches, and I ordered the chicken.