“Your sister’s family gets the guest room. Your kids can sleep on the floor.” Mom tossed two sleeping bags at my six-year-old. My sister laughed. “Should’ve booked a hotel.” I looked at my children kneeling, whispered, “Pack your things, babies,” and we left at 11 p.m. Three days later, Mom discovered what I quietly canceled.

We drove two and a half hours from Rochester to Maple Grove. Ryan took the day off work. I took the day off work. Owen wore his Thanksgiving sweater, the green one with the little turkey on the front that he picked out himself at Target because he said turkeys looked serious.

Ellie fell asleep forty minutes in, clutching the stuffed rabbit she brings everywhere, and woke up when we hit the gravel driveway, asking if Grandma had cookies.

I had a pie in the trunk. Pumpkin. From scratch. My father’s recipe, the one with the brown butter and the extra pinch of nutmeg he said was the secret nobody earns until they earn it.

He taught me when I was fourteen, standing on a stepstool because I couldn’t reach the counter. I’d been making it every Thanksgiving since he died.

Four pies. Four years.

I also brought a tablecloth. Ivory linen, scalloped edges. I ordered it three weeks ago because Mom mentioned hers had a stain. Forty-six dollars. I didn’t think about the forty-six dollars.

I never thought about the dollars.

Ryan carried the suitcases. I carried the pie. Owen carried the gift bag with the tablecloth inside. Ellie carried her rabbit.