My mother-in-law, Janice, was already seated at the head of the mahogany table. She was smiling, but it was that tight, Botox-adjacent grimace she reserved for moments right before she planned to ruin someone’s psychological well-being. Beside her hovered Gerald, my father-in-law, slicing the honey-glazed ham with a violence that suggested the pig had personally insulted his ancestors.

And then there was Agnes. My husband’s ninety-year-old grandmother sat quietly at the far end, a small island of grace in a sea of pretension. She caught the eye of my eight-year-old daughter, Fiona, and offered a genuine, crinkle-eyed smile. She was the only person in this house who didn’t treat my child like a visiting exchange student whose paperwork they had lost.