Christmas dinner that year was smaller.
Daniel.
Claire.
Their two grown children.
Margaret’s neighbor Ruth.
No dramatic speeches.
No confessions.
Daniel carved the turkey badly.
Claire corrected him.
Margaret corrected Claire.
The grandchildren exchanged looks.
After dinner, Daniel carried plates to the sink.
Margaret stood to help.
Claire pointed at her chair.
“Sit.”
Margaret raised an eyebrow.
Claire immediately corrected herself.
“Would you like to sit while we clean up?”
“That is better.”
Daniel laughed.
Margaret sat.
Later, after everyone left except Claire, the two women stood in the kitchen.
Claire was drying the last pan.
Margaret turned off the light over the stove.
Only the small lamp near the window remained.
Claire looked at the blue plate on its stand.
“I used to think the chip was on the other side.”
Margaret smiled.
“You were seven.”
“I remembered the color perfectly.”
“You always did like blue.”
Claire folded the towel.
“My bedroom here was blue.”
“Your bedroom was green.”
Claire stared.
Margaret smiled.
“You insisted it was blue.”
“It looked blue at night.”
“You argued that then too.”
Claire laughed.
