I had food for an army—well, maybe fifty—and I don’t know why I cooked so much. I always do this. I go overboard. My mother and grandmother did this, too. Not the cooking too much, but making sure everything was just right.

My family has this thing about food. Meals. Unity. Don’t know if it’s a German-Scottish thing or just the good old midwestern background showing, but neither my mom nor her mother worked outside the home. Their job, their labor of love, was family. Family, my late grandma Whiting used to say, is everything.

I miss my grandma—we were close—but I’m glad she died before Daniel and I divorced. She wouldn’t have understood. Grandma Whiting never cared about Daniel’s title at work, how much my business made, or where we went on our vacations. She was more concerned with our spiritual lives. Were we still going to church every Sunday? Were we sitting down for dinner every night as a family? Did the children say prayers at night before bed?

No, no, and no, I think, starting to clear the table.

In the kitchen I toss out some food, try to find homes for other items in my mismatched plastic storage containers. Spotting an open bottle of champagne floating in the silver bucket, I pull out the champagne, fill a flute, take a sip, and get back to work.

As I dump the wilted pomegranate salad, I turn on the garbage disposal and think about breakfast. What will I make in the morning? My traditional ham-and-cheese strata? Homemade cinnamon rolls?

Or how about a few frozen Eggo waffles?

After turning off the disposal, I reach for my champagne glass and crack a reluctant smile. I’d never serve Eggo waffles on Christmas morning. I couldn’t serve Eggo waffles on Christmas. Grandma Whiting would turn over in her grave.

Christmas is special. Christmas is the most wonderful time of the year.

The day after Christmas, Daniel picks up the kids for their week in Palm Springs. Anne calls later in the day to see if I have time for coffee that evening. She’ll pick me up after she gets the kids to bed.

At eight p.m. the phone rings. Anne’s on her way. I’m at the door when I see her headlights flash in the driveway.

We head to the nearest Starbucks in Madison Park, her Audi wagon’s headlights shining on and through the massive trees lining the narrow road.

At Starbucks we order before finding a comfortable table near the fireplace. “You okay?” Anne asks as we settle in. “You were pretty sad Christmas Eve.”

“I was just tired.”

“We’re all worried about you, Jack.”

“I’m okay—”

“You’re not. You’re exhausted. And blue. You need some R and R.”

“I don’t want to go away and be alone.”