Roast chicken. Too much wine. Forced conversation around my mother’s “good” dining table — the one we weren’t allowed to touch growing up unless the calendar said occasion. The date was circled in red on my phone:

Dinner at Mom’s – 6 PM. Smile. Don’t start anything.

On the drive over, autumn leaves scraped under the tires, the sky that soft gray that smells like woodsmoke and someone on the block burning the last of their leaves. My husband, Evan, squeezed my hand on the steering wheel.

“Ready?” he asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” I said — our code for absolutely not, but we’re going anyway because… family.

In the back seat, my eight-year-old daughter, Chloe, was in her own little universe of excitement. She clutched a foil-covered tray tight against her chest, like it might float away if she didn’t hang on.

She’d been up since seven that morning, apron on, hair in a crooked ponytail, standing on a chair at our kitchen counter. Four batches of cupcakes. The first burned. The second refused to rise. The third fell apart when she tried to take them out of the pan.

On the fourth try, she looked at me with serious eyes and said, “I’m not giving up, Mom. Grandma’s going to love these.”

And she did it. Vanilla cupcakes, pink frosting, rainbow sprinkles. A little lopsided, a little messy — but full of effort, full of pride.

“Do you think Grandma will like them?” she’d asked at least five times in the car.

“She’s going to love them,” I’d lied, because that’s what mothers do when they’re still hoping their own mothers will be different this time.

By the time we pulled up to my parents’ colonial-style house, every car was already there. My sister Monica’s spotless SUV, my brother-in-law’s practical sedan, my father’s old Buick. Through the front window, I could see the glow of the Christmas lights and silhouettes at the table. The soundtrack of my childhood — laughter that was always just a little too loud, glasses clinking, someone talking over everyone else — seeped out through the walls.

We didn’t knock. We never do. That’s the perk and the curse of family: access without invitation.

The front door opened onto polished wood, framed family photos, and the familiar smell of my mother’s cooking — garlic, rosemary, and something slightly burnt she’d insist was “perfectly caramelized.”

She appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel that matched the curtains, as always.

“There you are!” she said, smiling wide. “We thought traffic had eaten you alive.”

Her eyes flicked to the grandfather clock — 6:17. Seventeen minutes late. First strike.

“Construction on Route 9,” I said lightly.

“Well, there’s always something,” she answered, then turned to Evan, her smile warming by ten degrees. “Evan, you look wonderful. Have you lost weight?”

“Not that I know of,” he said politely.

“Well, you look it. Jody, you should take notes.”

There it was. First little cut of the evening. Wrapped in a joke. Impossible to challenge without being called “too sensitive.”

Chloe shifted from foot to foot, pressing the tray closer to her chest, eyes shining. Waiting for Grandma to notice.