I plaster a fake smile on my lips. “They are.”

“Well,” Evil Betsy continues. “I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time to talk later, Mr. O’Donnell. Now, I need to go sit down. My old limbs are not what they used to be.”

Oh, she’s such a drama queen. She should’ve been an actress, too. Aunt Betsy is the most independent ninety-year-old I know. She drove here in her car, and she’s never needed to use a cane to help her walk in her life. I’m convinced she’s going to bury us all.

“Dad’s in the living room with Paul,” I say. “We’ll join you later.”

We watch her make her way down the hallway, spry as a bunny, and Diego waits for her to disappear around the corner before whispering in my ear, “Are all your relatives this charming?”

“No.” I lean back into him. “You’ve met the worst; it’s all downhill from here.”

As if on cue, the doorbell rings again.

Diego goes to open the door, revealing my cousin Mandy struggling to keep a hold of two huge bags filled with wrapped gifts.

“I don’t know you,” she says to Diego with a cheery smile.

Diego is about to introduce himself when her three boys barrel into the house, screaming like crazed gremlins.

“BOYS!” she yells after them. “How many times do I have to tell you not to ruuuun?”

An ominous crashing noise is the only reply.

“I’m sorry.” Mandy walks past us to run after them. “Nikki, love the new haircut, we’ll catch up later…” And she’s gone, too.

“You were saying?” Diego grins.

“At least she’s nice.”

Mandy’s husband, Peter, comes in next, carrying as many bags as his wife. From then on, it’s a steady flow of people: my dad’s brother, Uncle Tom, with his wife Debra, their kids Michael and Sarah, who are about my age, their spouses and kids; and just as many relatives on my mother’s side. Aunt Betsy’s forty-five-year-old bachelor nephew is the last one to arrive at one o’clock.

There are too many people to have a proper meal all seated at the table—thank goodness—so the Christmas feast is consumed more buffet style. The older crowd takes over the dining room, while us younger folk claim the living room, sitting on the couch, armchairs, or on the pillows Mom has scattered around the huge rug for exactly this purpose. The kids have their reserved dining area set up in the kitchen.

There are about ten of us seated around the Christmas tree, ages ranging from twenty-eight to forty-five. Mom comes and goes, bringing new trays of food which quickly get emptied—except for Julia’s special trays. All the vegan platters are still half-full by the end of the meal, scattered atop the furniture surrounding her. I spot Cousin Michael take a bite of one of her brownish tarts, and discretely spit it into his paper napkin two seconds later. But otherwise, it seems everyone has quickly learned to steer clear of whatever platters Julia is grazing from.