Sarah and David’s Evanston house had become the place everyone gathered now.
Daniel and Nora were due at noon.
Linda had died four years earlier.
Michael seven years before that.
Melissa and her family would arrive in the afternoon.
There would be too many coats by the front door and at least one argument over politics that Sarah planned to end by turning up Christmas music.
Emma had insisted on baking the pie herself.
“You know,” she said while stirring, “Grandma Linda eventually learned to like this.”
Sarah leaned against the counter.
“No.”
“She told me she did.”
“She was lying.”
Emma laughed.
“How do you know?”
“Because she once described cranberries as ‘aggressive.’”
David called from the pantry, “That is a very Linda word.”
Sarah smiled.
Memory had changed shape.
There was a time when hearing Linda’s name made her body tense before her mind caught up.
Now some memories hurt.
Some amused her.
Most simply existed.
Emma looked at the recipe card.
“Mom.”
“Yes?”
“Why did you keep this?”
“The recipe?”
“No.”
She turned the card over.
On the back, in Emma’s younger handwriting, were the words:
AND NEVER STAY SILENT WHEN SOMEONE YOU LOVE IS BEING HURT.
Sarah looked at it.
“You wrote that.”
“I know.”
“I mean why did you keep the actual card?”
Sarah thought.
“Because it reminds me that families can rewrite rules.”
Emma’s expression softened.
Sarah continued:
“When I was little, your grandfather had rules too.”
“Not written.”
“Work hard.”
“Don’t complain.”
“Take care of your people.”
“Your grandmother—my mother—had different ones.”
“Don’t embarrass someone publicly.”
“Don’t let anger travel into the next morning.”
“Always send thank-you notes.”
Emma smiled.
“That one skipped you.”
Sarah ignored her.
“Daniel’s family had rules.”
She paused.
“Protect Linda’s feelings.”
“Do not challenge her in front of people.”
“Make peace quickly, even if nothing is resolved.”
“Then we had rules.”
Emma nodded slowly.
“What are ours?”
Sarah smiled.
“You tell me.”
Emma put down the spoon.
“No touching somebody in anger.”
“Good.”
“No forcing apologies.”
“Good.”
“Kids don’t have to hug relatives.”
“Very good.”
“No pretending everything is fine because it’s a holiday.”
Sarah nodded.
“And?”
Emma looked toward the recipe card.
“If someone is being hurt, you don’t stay quiet.”
Sarah smiled.
“That one.”
Aaron, who had been unpacking groceries nearby, looked over.
Emma caught him listening.
“You’re being tested right now.”
He froze.
Sarah laughed.
“No.”
“Yes.”
Aaron stared between them.
“I would like written notice before all future tests.”
David called from pantry.
“You never get notice.”
Aaron sighed.
“I married into something.”
Emma kissed his cheek.
“Yes.”
The doorbell rang.
Daniel arrived first.
At sixty-three he had gone almost completely gray.
He wore glasses now and complained about his knees with such consistency that Emma had once bought him a Christmas card reading, Congratulations on making your joints everyone else’s problem.
Nora followed carrying two casseroles.
Daniel held up a bakery box.