Chapter 17
That autumn, I adopted a dog.
Her name was Biscuit.
I had nothing to do with that.
She came with the name already on her shelter paperwork.
A fifty-pound mix of something golden and something confused.
One ear stood straight up.
The other never did.
During her first week, she followed me room to room like a small anxious shadow.
By the second, she had claimed the sunny kitchen spot and stopped flinching when I closed a door.
I understood her more than I would ever admit.
In November, Priya told me the Northeast program had exceeded its targets and she had nominated me for a national nonprofit leadership award.
I cried in her office, embarrassed.
She handed me a tissue.
“You did this. You were always this person. You just got to be her out loud.”
Then, before I quite realized it, December came again.
On Christmas Eve, my townhouse smelled of cinnamon, pine, and roasting ham.
Dana arrived first with wine and a ridiculous sweater covered in tiny reindeer.
Priya came with her husband and a tin of shortbread.
Tess came too.
Glowing.
She pulled me aside in the kitchen and whispered that she had left her boyfriend in the spring, moved into her own apartment, and had never felt lighter.
“You said to learn where I stood,” she told me. “I did. It was terrible. And then it was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
I hugged her harder than a boss probably should.
Margaret and Robert arrived at six.
Robert carried a poinsettia the size of a small child.
Margaret carried a covered dish.
She set it on the counter and lifted the lid.
The cranberry dish.
The same one she served the Christmas Eve when my husband brought his girlfriend to dinner and the truth emerged over dessert.
“I have something for you,” she said.
She pulled a small yellowed index card from her purse.
Old, slanted handwriting.
A faded coffee ring in one corner.
“This was my mother’s recipe. It’s the only good thing I inherited from that house.”
Her voice dropped.
“She never got to be the woman she could’ve been. But this—”
She pressed the card into my palm.
“—belongs to the women in this family who choose themselves. And Emily, you count.”
I couldn’t speak.
I held that fragile card in both hands.
Margaret pulled me into a hug smelling of lavender, starch, and forty years of steady love.
Behind her, Robert wiped his eyes and pretended to study the poinsettia.
Around seven, the doorbell rang.
Biscuit exploded into barking.
I opened the door.
Daniel stood on the porch in a gray wool coat, holding a tin of cookies and standing very carefully still.
“Mom left these in my car,” he said. “I promise I’m not staying. I didn’t want to intrude.”
