It was a rich, intricate scent, layered with fresh rosemary, sage, and the savory, golden aroma of a roasting turkey that had been basting for four hours. It was the scent of a bustling family gathering, of laughter clinking against wine glasses, of stories being shouted over the din of a football game on the TV.

But the room was silent.

The only sound was the low, electric hum of the refrigerator and the occasional pop of the oven expanding in the heat.

I stood by the island, wearing the apron my mother had given me five years ago—the one that said Queen of the Kitchen in faded red letters. I opened the oven door, a blast of heat hitting my face, and basted the turkey for the third time. The skin was turning a perfect, magazine-cover bronze.

“Grandma loves the skin crispy,” I said aloud, my voice too bright, too cheerful for the quiet room. It bounced off the granite countertops and died in the empty hallway.

Chloe, my sixteen-year-old daughter, sat at the kitchen table. She was peeling potatoes with a rhythm that bordered on aggressive. Scrape. Snap. Scrape. Snap.

She didn’t look up. “If she shows up,” she mumbled.

I flinched, but I kept my smile plastered on. It was a skill I had perfected over forty years—the ability to smile over the cracks in the foundation.

“Chloe, please,” I chided gently, closing the oven door. “Don’t be cynical. They’re just running late. You know how Aunt Lauren is with time. And Dad… well, Dad drives slow.”

We walked down the driveway, leaving the empty house behind us. The air smelled of rain and dead leaves, but underneath it all, I could finally breathe.