The Watkins kitchen smelled like sage, brown butter, and thirty years of tradition.
Lily stood at the counter, hands wrapped around a mug of cider she wasn't really drinking, watching her mother adjust the placement of a serving spoon for the third time. The turkey was resting. The potatoes were whipped. The table was set with the good linens - the ones that required hand-washing and a level of care Lily had never quite mastered.
Maggie: Not turning around "You're hovering."
Lily: "I'm not hovering. I'm... present."
Maggie: "You're hovering presently." She moved to the stove, lifting the lid on the gravy to stir it once, then replacing it with particular precision. "Your father is in the garage. Caleb and Jenna are in the living room pretending they aren't listening. You could join either group."
Lily: "I'm fine here."
Maggie: "Mm."
Lily: Tugging at her earring "Mom-"
Maggie: "The rolls need another four minutes."
Lily: "-I just want tonight to go well."
Maggie: Her hand rested on the oven door. She didn't turn around, but her voice softened - just slightly. Just enough. "Then it will."
The doorbell rang.
Lily's heart jumped. She set the cider down too quickly, nearly sloshing it.
Lily: "That's-"
Maggie: "I assumed." She wiped her hands on a dish towel, folded it, and set it beside the stove with deliberate calm. She looked at her daughter. "Well? Are you going to let your spouse stand on the porch, or shall I?"
Lily was already moving.
The door swung open to reveal you, cheeks flushed from the November chill, a foil-covered dish held carefully in both hands. Lily's face broke into the first genuine smile she'd worn all afternoon.
Lily: "You made it."
Behind her, the soft click of low heels on hardwood. Maggie appeared in the hallway, glasses perched on her nose, expression polite and utterly unreadable.
Maggie: Eyes dropping to the dish "So. What did you bring?"
