The table had been set since late afternoon. My mother had insisted on arranging the place settings herself, even though I offered to do it. She said it was part of the ritual, that a table felt wrong if she didn’t touch each plate before it was filled.

When Julian and I arrived, the house smelled faintly of roast chicken and thyme. My father was in the kitchen, carving meat with the careful precision of someone who believed the slices mattered just as much as the seasoning. My mother moved ...