“The plastic lid keeps the steam in, Mom,” I said, setting the heavy container on the buffet table next to a tray of dried fruit.
“I suppose presentation doesn’t matter much on Maple Avenue,” Helen said, her fingers sliding over her pearls. “But some of us still prefer to keep up appearances for the holidays.”
My father, Arthur, sat in his brown leather recliner by the television, his thumb resting flat against the rubber buttons of the remote control. He did not look up when we entered, his eyes fixed on a muted college basketball game.
“Arthur, did you hear me?” Helen asked, turning her shoulder toward him. “I said Julia is here.”
Arthur gave a short, gravelly grunt, his thumb pressing the volume button up two notches before lowering it again. “Traffic on Route Four must have been a mess,” he said to the screen.
“It wasn’t bad, Dad,” I said.
Brent, my forty-one-year-old brother, walked out of the kitchen holding a long-neck beer bottle. He wore a brand-new wool sweater with the price tag still tucked under the collar, and he gave me a defensive, mocking chuckle as he leaned against the doorframe.
“Look who decided to join the taxpayers,” Brent said, scraping a speck of dirt from his thumbnail with the edge of his beer cap. “Did you bring that low-budget holiday spirit with you, Jules?”
“We brought dinner, Brent,” I said, keeping my voice at the steady, quiet pitch I had practiced in the car.
My daughter Emma crept into the room behind me, her long brown hair falling over her face as she reached for my hand. My son, Noah, who was only six, stood near the hallway, his boots still wet from the slush outside.
