A few months ago, Daniel’s extended family gathered at our home for a Sunday afternoon dinner. Clara was seven years old—a bright, imaginative child who loved drawing serious portraits of horses, despite having only ever seen a single real horse in her life.
Dinner preparation that afternoon involved warm dinner rolls, garlic bread, and anything else capable of melting butter. Clara treated the bread basket like a festive arrival, eagerly setting out custom name cards she had crafted for every seat at the table.
Beatrice arrived carrying an uninvited salad bowl. “No heavy dressings,” she announced to the room at large. “People can add their own oil if they wish. It’s significantly healthier.”
I intentionally avoided taking the bait, focusing instead on plating the roast.
Beatrice moved around the dining room, offering her characteristic commentary. She complimented Daniel’s sister on a new haircut that supposedly made her face look thinner, inspected the roast to ask whether I had thoroughly trimmed the fat, and watched critically as I spooned gravy onto my plate.
When the warm bread basket made its first trip around the table, Clara eagerly offered it to her grandmother. Beatrice declined with a polite wave, took a plain roll for herself, and turned back to chatting with her son. Clara, completely unfazed, took a roll and returned to telling her uncle animatedly about a horse she had drawn at school.
