“I don’t have time for a relationship,” I said.

“Or you haven’t found anyone you can love like Trey,” Meg said.

“Of course I love him. As a friend. But if we had to live together, we’d kill each other.”

“You were best friends in high school.”

“You’re my best friend.” We had always been close, paired together in age like Jane and Elizabeth Bennet. (In my imaginings, of course, Meg was Jane, and I was snarky, independent Lizzy.)

“Aw. Love you,” Meg said. “I wish you could be here for Thanksgiving.”

This year, I wouldn’t be going home. Or taking New Jersey Transit from Penn Station to Summit, where Ashmeeta’s parents lived. No Thursday turkey with a side of palak paneer and naan. No Friday night Girls marathon and martinis on the couch with Rachel.

This year, I was alone for the holidays.

“At least you’ll see Beth,” I said. Our sister Beth, after a couple of false starts, was back in college at Greensboro, studying music. But she went home every holiday. Most weekends, too.

“And Amy,” Meg said.

“I thought she was going back to Paris. Doesn’t she start that job this month?”

Amy, after sweet-talking Aunt Phee into giving her a trip to Europe as a graduation present, had schmoozed her way into an internship with Louis Vuitton.

“She put them off until after Thanksgiving,” Meg said. “She feels bad enough about missing Christmas with the family.”

I took another sip of wine. “How’s Dad?” I asked.

“Dad’s fine. He’s going up to Walter Reed this week to visit some of his old battalion.”

So that was good.

After 9/11, our father had left his congregation to join up as a military chaplain. After his first fifteen-month deployment, he’d re-upped again. And again. Even after he got out of the army, he had rejected assignment to another church, instead founding a nonprofit that worked with returning veterans, helping them reintegrate into civilian life, providing counseling for PTSD.

I was so proud of his service. Even when it took him away from us.

“Mommy, down,” Daisy demanded in the background.

“Hang on, sweetie. Let Mommy wipe your hands first,” Meg said.

“Done. Down now.”

“DJ, don’t you want more apple?” Meg asked.

“He’s not hungry, Mommy.”

“Okay,” my sister said in a cheery voice. I was impressed by her patience. Not to mention her ability to conduct two conversations at once. “Let’s get you both cleaned up and—”

“Done. Done. Down.” An escalating wail.

“If you need to go . . .” I said.

“In a little while. DJ needs a clean shirt.” A pause. “Possibly a bath. He’s got peanut butter in his ears.”

I laughed. “I think you’re amazing,” I told my sister honestly.

“Thanks, sweetie. Some days I don’t feel so amazing. This morning when I left the house, I didn’t even put on makeup.”

I grinned. “Oh, the horror. Appearing in public without mascara? They’re going to revoke your Southern Woman card for sure.”