At Thanksgiving, my daughter-in-law thought it would be funny to pour gravy over me. The family laughed. Ten minutes later, a notary arrived at the door carrying a folder Camille had desperately hoped would remain hidden.
I had spent three days preparing for that Thursday. My arthritic hands kneaded dough for bread rolls until they ached. I polished the porcelain my mother had left me and baked chestnut stuffing that my son, Lucas, had loved since childhood. At sixty-nine, I insisted on doing everything myself, holding tight to the traditions that…